The Shearer's Wife

by Fleur McDonald

  ‘But there isn’t a station out there.’ Zara was confused. She was local and neither Old Ted Leeson nor Two Mile Creek were ringing any bells with her.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘So, why’s he living out there?’

  ‘Ted doesn’t really like people. Prefers his own company. Once he got booted from the trains, he got the shits with society and wanted to be alone. Set his humpy up next to the spring. Surely you know there’s permanent water in places around here?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, I knew that, but I’ve never heard of anyone living on them. I know some of the cameleers back in the early days used to camp on them.’

  ‘Yep, they did, and a couple of springs were on stock routes, so the drovers would camp on them with their cattle as well.’

  Zara stopped walking and dug out her notebook. She leaned it against a fence and started taking notes—the droving story would be good to follow up once this one with Essie was finished. ‘Okay, so the third tree from the bridge?’

  ‘That’s the one. Ted doesn’t drive anymore, so I do a run out there every fortnight when he gets his government cheque. Pick him up and bring him into town. He buys his supplies and then I take him back. I’m scared I’ll go out there one week and find him dead and fly blown.’

  Zara wrinkled her nose at the thought, although she knew that it wasn’t an uncommon end for people in isolated areas.

  ‘Now, when you head out to see him, don’t go too early—after mid-morning, but before afternoon smoko. Let him get a couple of drinks in first, but don’t go out after smoko ’cause you won’t get anything out of him. You’ll have to judge it pretty well.’

  ‘Okay. Sounds like a character. When are you due to go and visit Ted again?’

  ‘Not for another week. Next Thursday.’

  ‘Right. No point in trying to go together, then. I was thinking an introduction might be helpful if he doesn’t like people turning up uninvited and asking questions.’

  ‘You’ll be right. Take a bottle of rum with you and make sure you tell him I sent you. Once he’s got a couple of drinks into him, I promise you he’ll be fine. If he gets a bit aggro, then offer him the bottle.’

  ‘Okey dokey. Brilliant. Thanks, Hopper. Talk to you soon.’

  She disconnected then dialled Lachie back again. ‘Sorry, just needed to talk to someone,’ she said.

  ‘Good intel, I hope?’

  ‘I’m getting there. Slow going. You said you hadn’t found a line yet?’

  ‘Nah. Put some feelers out for you, though. You got anything?’

  ‘Just some names. Could you get someone to look into them?’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘I came across an article listing five people who died in South Australia from a contaminated batch of heroin.’

  ‘What are the names?’

  Zara gave them to him. ‘Now, the interesting thing about this is that one of the names—Ryan Kipling—is linked back to Melissa Carter. He’s the father of her child.’

  She could hear Lachie’s fingers fly across the keyboard.

  ‘Right,’ he muttered. ‘I’m flicking you some information on email. Shit, this is only five or so years ago.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I don’t know why I don’t remember this,’ Lachie said. ‘Deaths across Australia, four in Melbourne, three in Brisbane. Plus more in other states. Saying it was due to a batch of contaminated heroin coming in. No arrests. Not even any leads on who brought it in.’

  ‘Got to be a link here, wouldn’t you think? The same people who imported would distribute it Australia-wide?’

  ‘Depending on who, but, yes. If it’s one of the drug families, then, absolutely. What I don’t understand, Zara, is what link you’re seeing to Essie Carter here. You’ve got Melissa’s partner deceased from an OD and her daughter who’s missing—if she hasn’t been heard of since she took off five years ago, then there’s every chance she ended up dead on the streets and in a morgue with a Jane Doe tag on her toe.’

  ‘I hear you, but there’s something telling me that’s not right. I think the daughter’s still alive—and nearby. Maybe she’s getting Essie to take possession of the drugs for her. Perhaps she’s on the streets working as a prostitute.’

  ‘Why would Essie get the drugs for her if she’s on the street? Melissa would have access to anything she wants out there.’

  Zara was silent, her brain whirling. ‘I know,’ she said finally. ‘That’s the part that doesn’t make sense. All I know is, Essie is protecting someone and that person is the key to finding out why she accepted the drugs. It would make sense for her to look out for her daughter.’

  ‘Or someone blackmailing her to keep her daughter safe?’ Lachie suggested. ‘Shit, that’s been done a million times over.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s another option. Or—’ She broke off. ‘Or, what about if whomever it is has threatened Paris’s safety?’

  It was Lachie’s turn to be silent.

  ‘Well, that would be a mongrel act. But I guess that’s been done before too.’

  Zara put her notepad back into her bag and looked down the street. Butterflies ran through her stomach as she saw Jack’s car pull out from the police station and head towards her. As he drove past, she raised her hand to wave to him.

  Jack looked as if he wanted to ignore her, but before he passed her by he gave a small wave, without smiling. Zara felt a hot flush of humiliation rush through her.

  ‘You still there?’ Lachie asked.

  ‘What? Oh, yeah.’

  ‘You know, when I was reporting on the streets I was always told that druggies return to their roots. Where would Melissa’s roots be?’

  ‘She grew up in Barker.’

  ‘Okay, and she’s not there?’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘If she’s alive—and I say “if” because there’s still a high chance she’s not with us anymore—she’s not going to be too far away. That’s my guess, anyway. Which is what you just said. Probably one of the bigger centres. Port Augusta or Port Pirie. Somewhere like that.’

  ‘Adelaide, if she’s prostituting herself?’

  ‘Not necessarily. They’ve got pros in the smaller towns too, you know.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip. I’ll keep on with it.’

  ‘I’ll do some digging too.’

  They rang off and Zara put her hand to her head as she thought about Jack. She dug her purse out and looked at the business card Dave had given her. She stood on the pavement turning it over and over in her hand.

  Chapter 27

  ‘Um, yes, hello. Could I make an appointment, please?’ Zara’s heart was thumping and she felt sweat on her brow despite the chill in the air.

  After she’d seen Jack, she’d known she didn’t have a choice—she wanted their relationship to work, and to do that, she had to fix herself. They’d been together since just after Will died; as time had gone on, and they’d talked, become closer, Zara had realised that she’d never had a relationship like the one she shared with Jack. They talked late into the night, by phone, about anything and everything. They texted during the day, laughed on her verandah. She’d cheered him on while he played footy and they’d started having dinner parties with their friends.

  They’d even talked about moving in together.

  Then Zara had started to pull away. Close down. Because if both her dad and her brother could be taken from her, then surely Jack could too. She didn’t want to feel the pain of losing someone she loved ever again.

  But was the alternative to feel this empty for the rest of her life? Wasn’t Jack worth taking a punt on?

  The only way to make their love work was for her to deal with the grief that plagued her constantly. She had to let go of the pain and find a way to think about Will and see things that reminded her of him without having a panic attack. To stop the nightmares and flashbacks. To stop thinking she could lose Jack as well.

  The first step was admitting she might be suffering from PTSD.
She’d googled the symptoms after Dave had spoken to her, but she didn’t want to believe it.

  Everyone went through grief, she told herself again and again—everyone had someone they love die.

  But she hadn’t lost just Will. Her father had died only a few short years before her brother, and it had been Zara who’d found his car upside-down on the road near their property, Rowberry Glen.

  Mum lost her husband and her son, and she’s managing okay, she silently berated herself.

  But then there were the symptoms, right in front of her: re-experiencing trauma through intrusive, distressing recollections of the event, through flashbacks and nightmares. Well, that was certainly true. Most nights she woke having seen her father upended in his ute and Will’s coffin being carried out of the church. Sometimes it wasn’t Will in the coffin—it was Jack. Sometimes it wasn’t her dad hanging upside-down in the ute—it was Jack. She would wake, expecting there to be tears on her cheeks, but she didn’t feel anything: emotional numbness, another symptom. Her avoidance of the footy field and the farm because they were reminders.

  Recently, she’d found her mind drifting as she wrote; she couldn’t concentrate, just as she tossed and turned in bed and snapped at people when she didn’t mean to.

  There were more severe symptoms as she read on, but the ones that had caught her attention were those she recognised in herself, thanks to Dave’s comment. If he hadn’t pointed them out to her, she doubted she would have realised there was anything wrong.

  Although she had known that her behaviour the night she’d gone to the bar with Jesse was out of character. Again, a flush of humiliation washed over her as she thought about that night. Thank God Jesse was a gentleman. Someone different could have taken advantage of her and there would have been nothing she could have done about it.

  ‘Hello, are you there?’ the receptionist asked, pulling Zara away from her thoughts.

  ‘Yes, sorry. What was the date?’

  ‘We have one in two weeks’ time. Wednesday at 2 p.m. Have you been here before?’

  ‘No.’ Zara put the call on speaker and looked at her diary. She had a meeting with Lachie in Adelaide that day. ‘Is there another time sooner?’ she asked.

  ‘No, and this appointment is the last one we have until … hmm, another two months. Dr Connelly is very busy.’

  Zara didn’t want to miss that meeting with Lachie and she was about to say no, when she realised she was running away from all this again. ‘That will be fine, thank you.’

  She tapped the date and time into her phone and hung up. She knew she’d taken a big step forward, but the sense of relief she’d expected wasn’t there. In fact, there was nothing inside her. Except a need to hear Jack’s voice. To tell him what she’d done. And why. For him. For her. For them.

  As the countryside passed by on the way to Old Ted Leeson’s humpy, Zara saw tractors seeding into paddocks that had enjoyed rain over the past few days. When she’d spoken to her mum the previous night, Lynda had told her Rowberry Glen had had fifty millimetres of rain—the biggest fall in three years. The spiderwebs were being dusted off the tractor, and the grain that Will had put into the silos for seed three years ago was about to be sown.

  Zara had tears in her eyes by the time she’d hung up. The relief in her mother’s voice was obvious, and she knew that, between Lynda and the young workman, the seeding would get done quickly and efficiently.

  However, the thought of Will being there, three years ago, sitting behind the steering wheel of the tractor was enough to give Zara a panic attack. She’d had to walk the edges of the room, breathing slowly to ward it off.

  Her mother had been so excited, Zara didn’t want to burst her happiness by talking about the counsellor’s appointment or, for that matter, about Jack. Other than finding love with Will’s doctor, James, Lynda’s reasons to smile had been few and far between.

  Barker hadn’t received anything like the rain that had fallen at Rowberry Glen—just the misty showers she’d felt the night the strange car had driven past her house. The falls hadn’t been widespread, but the lucky farmers under the drenching were now busy.

  The rich red dirt was being turned over and the smell of moist soil and diesel fumes filled the air. Zara breathed it in deeply, remembering the times she’d sat alongside her father as he’d seeded wheat into the ground. How they’d watched it germinate and grow into plants as tall as her thighs, then turn from the rich green to golden and finally the header would be serviced and prepared for harvest.

  Zara found a smile playing on her lips amid the sadness as she watched a red tractor turn a sharp corner and line up again to go back. Gone were the days of seeding around the fence line in an ever-decreasing circle. Now they were all on tram lines. Every tractor had a GPS to keep the driver on the correct line. Her dad had said they were creating ‘steering wheel attendants’ rather than farmers who knew how to drive a seeder and fix something if it went wrong. It was the computers that drove the machines now and the mechanics who drove from the closest dealership to fix them.

  ‘Can’t hold back the times, Dad,’ she’d said.

  Her smile faded as she remembered his smile and laughter.

  She saw the sixty-kilometre sign for the tiny town of Torrica and slowed down as the anger started, bubbling in her chest until it screamed to be released. Hitting the steering wheel with her hand, she cried out. There was no one to hear her.

  ‘Why?’ she yelled, brushing the falling tears away. ‘Why was it both of you?’

  Pulling over in the parking bay at the edge of town, she ranted and cried until she had nothing left.

  The occasional car passed her, but she didn’t take any notice. Some of the people in this town would know her car and others would probably think she was on the phone. Leaning her head against the cold window, she continued to cry, but not with the intensity of before. Tears trickled down her cheeks but she didn’t wipe them away.

  Emptiness swarmed through her like a cold wave. Emptiness, loneliness, fear. Then nothing.

  She jumped as there was a knock on the window. Looking out, she saw Jack standing there in his uniform. Drained and tired, she wiped her face. She didn’t want him to know she’d been crying—that would show weakness—but there didn’t seem a choice.

  Zara wound the window down. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Had a call out. Why are you parked up here? Are you … You’ve been crying. What’s wrong?’ He opened the door and squatted down, holding her hand.

  She looked at the concern on his face and tried to speak. ‘Nothing. Just …’ Everything she was feeling, or not feeling, was too hard to explain.

  ‘Talk to me, Zara. Tell me.’ He reached forward and put his hand against her cheek. ‘Don’t you know I want to help? I want to be here for you?’ He stroked his thumb along her cheekbone.

  Jack’s kindness and love brought the tears again. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘All the memories, they keep coming back up. I don’t …’

  He moved his hand and ran his thumb under her eye to get rid of the tears and then pulled her to him.

  Zara pulled back. ‘I can’t be seen talking to you.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Dave thinks … um, Dave said …’ She broke eye contact with him and looked at the ground.

  Jack waited.

  ‘Dave thinks I’ve got something wrong with my head. Post-traumatic stress disorder.’

  Relief spread over Jack’s face. ‘That makes sense,’ he said. ‘It really does. You’ve been through a lot over the past few years. And you’ve had pressure from work too. All that’s bound to have some sort of lasting effect on you.’

  ‘But it’s weak …’

  Jack shook his head. ‘Don’t let me hear you say that. It’s not true. You’ve had trauma.’ He continued to hold her hand and look at her steadily.

  Feeling his strength flow into her, she began to relax. She sniffed and took her hand away to reach for a tissue. Jack wasn’t
having any of that, though, and he put his hand on her knee and continued to stroke her in long, calming motions. Finally she put her hand over his and closed her eyes.

  ‘I’ve made an appointment. To talk to someone.’ Her sentences were sharp and jerky.

  ‘There’s no shame in talking, if that’s what you’re thinking, Zara. Plenty of people have counsellors.’

  She nodded and resisted the urge to rest her head on his shoulder. Jack was so solid and steady and reliable. And loving.

  ‘When’s the appointment?’

  ‘In a couple of weeks. I decided … I thought …’ She took a breath and tried again. ‘I want things to work out between us, Jack, and I know it’s me who’s causing the problems.’

  He shook his head and grasped her hand tightly. ‘It’s not all you. I haven’t reacted well either. Let’s start again, hey? Make sure we talk through everything this time. If there isn’t any communication, then we’ve got problems. Just like we have now.’

  Pulling away, Zara looked at him. ‘But what if I can’t be fixed?’ Her eyes darted around as she felt the fear trickle through her stomach. Maybe she was beyond help.

  Jack opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again.

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘I was going to say of course you can be, but I guess we won’t know anything until you see the doc. Let’s take it one step at a time.’

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ Zara said, pulling away. She’d needed an affirmation she would be well again, not more doubt. ‘I don’t want to talk about it anymore.’

  ‘That’s my point, Zara!’ Jack sounded frustrated as he reached for her again, but she moved away. ‘You don’t talk and then we get into this situation where the smallest things blow up because we haven’t said how we’re feeling. If we can’t talk, there’s not a lot of hope for us.’

  ‘You might be better off without me.’ As she said the words, she heard Dave’s voice. If it all goes pear-shaped … well, I’m close to retirement. Jack’s not and I refuse to jeopardise his career.

  A look of shock crossed his face and he retorted quickly, ‘I don’t agree with that at all.’