He’s in front of her. Less than a hundred metres away. There with his back turned. Why doesn’t she just do it? Stand and make a bolt for it, stand and run. It’d be over instantly, doesn’t take any time at all to die from a bullet. He’ll get her anyway, in the end.
All you’ve denied yourself. Everything you’ve worked for. What you want now, what you could have.
He took your sister. He took away your life. Your life. Gemma’s life, Gracie’s life. Ellie and Dave and Jonny and Liam and Beth and Andy and Minna.
Has he won? Are you going to let him win?
Crawl. Too slowly and too softly to be heard. Any sound, the smallest movement, and he’ll be on you. Keep your head down, covered with the hood. Down, down, your belly almost on the ground, the soft leaves beneath you, the darkness keeping you hidden, keeping you safe.
He holds the rifle casually, swinging it slightly in one hand. He’s confident. He can wait it out. I’m good at waiting. You must know that, Stephanie. How good I am at waiting.
He knows he’ll get her.
‘Stephanie? Just a matter of time.’
43.
Slide forward as close as you can get. It’s your only chance. If he keeps the rifle, it’s no match.
It doesn’t matter so much about the first one but the second has to be right, it has to be heavy. Run your fingers over it, weigh it in your hand.
Slowly. Steady. Half-crouched and up. Toss the first rock. High and over.
He turns, faces where the sudden sound comes from, raises the rifle. ‘I can see you, Stephanie.’
You have only a few seconds. Grip it between your thumb and first two fingers. Measure the distance. Keep your eye on the target. Run and jump and hurl. Hurl it with all your might.
The stone slams into the side of his head and he jerks, brings up his hand, staggers, and she’s running right at him, coming at him fast, her body slamming into him and she’s raising her fists, ramming them into his body, fingers reaching upwards gouging at his eyes the rifle’s out of his hands. On the ground, his hands moving, reaching, gripping her wrists pushing her backwards forcing her backwards on the ground. Keep fighting. Kick and bite.
He’s on top of her, holding her down, his arm bent over her chest pinning her to the ground his eyes glazed over with rage he’s reaching down reaching downwards scrabbling at her clothes with his free hand she can’t breathe for the pressure.
He is grinning. ‘Never had so much trouble with your mother. Minna was easy.’
Jesus.
Oh Christ, oh no.
Bring up your knee, smash it into him.
‘Fuck, fuck you, bitch, cunt.’ He grabs her hair, yanks her head back, his hands are on her throat pressing hard, little pricks of dazzling light in front of her eyes.
Stay still, utterly still, stay still and try to breathe. You have to stay still and let him, let his hands tear and grab and rip.
He thinks he has you. His eyes blank and dead and staring, his arm crooked across your neck, pinning you to the ground.
He raises his body above you.
And now you have to do it quickly. Twist your body slightly, get your hand free, move it slowly, slow and steady, it’s right there in your parka pocket, slip your fingers inside and now that you have it bring your hand swiftly up, at the crease where the lower abdomen meets the upper thigh.
Good he’s lean. So much easier to find.
She cuts deftly, at an angle. Cuts deeply into his groin.
The femoral artery, a main artery running from the external iliac artery, carries the blood supply to the lower half of the body. If cut, unconsciousness will occur within approximately 30 seconds and death within minutes.
She senses the jolt, the shock against her body. The slackening of his hands. And everything is still. She feels the cold, damp beneath her, smells the sharp, moist scent of rotting leaves. His body is immeasurably heavy. She looks upwards to the light sifting through the canopy of bush, feels the warm pulsing of blood.
44.
Looks upwards.
Minna stands over them holding the rifle.
She shoves him off. The rain is sheeting down.
‘Jesus. You’re covered in blood.’
‘He’s dead. He knew.’ She stares at Minna. ‘What do we do with him?’
‘Dump him. The river?’
‘If we put him in the river he’ll turn up somewhere.’
‘So where?’
They walk back silently. The rain is a bitter, driving torrent and it’s hard going. By the time they reach the river it’s well up. Stephanie slips, almost loses the rifle in the rush of water. Then the tussock and the farmland.
They’re in the car park. Standing close together, the rain hammering down, shouting against the roar.
‘Thank Christ for the rain. There’ll be no blood or tracks. Does anyone know he’s out here?’
‘He wouldn’t have told anyone. He meant to kill me.’
‘We’ll have to wait it out.’
‘What about the truck?’
‘Leave it where it is. If we’re lucky they won’t find it for a while. Jesus, Steph, I thought I’d lost you. I went off the main track. Then I heard him yelling. I—’
‘Oh God, I killed him.’
‘Yeah.’
They stare into each others’ eyes. Stare and stare and then Minna grins and she grins back. ‘Steph, take off your clothes, all of them. We have to get rid of them. You can wear mine. My bag’s in the car.’
She strips them off, feels the blistering sting of rain on her skin burning into her, scouring her clean. Takes the clothes Minna has ready, pulls them over her sodden body.
‘We should go before anyone turns up,’ Minna says.
‘One more thing.’ Stephanie goes to the truck and opens the door. She reaches into the glove box, takes out the sunglass case. Opens it up.
The butterfly is on her outstretched palm.
And Minna takes it in her hands.
‘Mum?’
They move tentatively towards each other. Minna holds her. Holds her strongly and with fierce love. They are weeping at last. Weeping for what has been taken from them, for what was lost.
45.
She pulls into the car park, gets out and walks beneath the dark raggedy pines and across the green where they’re playing cricket. It’s another perfect day. She heard Dave last night going to be a cracker summer.
She’s all packed up. Has said her goodbyes.
Stealing in through the door, up the stairs. Water as hot as she could stand it, pelting over her body. Standing in the steam. Breathing. Breathing.
Feeling each deep, hard, inward suck of thick, warm, good air and letting it out in a gush. In and out. In and out.
Breathing.
She wears the skirt she bought at the market, red and yellow and blue, very bright, lots of fun. And silver hoop earrings, the black top with little straps. She wears make-up, does her hair the way that hairdresser said to.
They look up from the sofa. ‘You look nice. Have a good day?’
‘Went for a bit of a walk. Got caught in the rain,’ she smiles, shrugs.
In the morning she listens to the radio.
This is where they were. On the rug. Minna and Stephanie and Gemma. And the plane came up from behind the mountains.
She holds it in her hands. This sweet little bouquet of daisies and carnations tied up with a blue satin ribbon. A butterfly pinned to the ribbon. She walks to the edge of the lake, lies the flowers gently on the surface of the water. A breeze has come up and she watches the flickering shades of pink and blue and yellow as they tumble and skim across the water.
She’s on the road. With the windows down, sun beaming through the windscreen. She has the radio on. The news is the same as yesterday. Same as the day before. No sign of missing tramper. Grave fears for his safety.
There are ravines. You could fall over the edge without seeing them. There are places around here you could fall into and never
be found.
A spokesman from Search and Rescue warns of the dangers of tramping alone without notifying someone and without suitable equipment, especially following heavy rain forecasts. She switches off the radio, slots in a CD.
They’ll never find him, Steph. Not down there.
She’s reached the turn-off and she slows and pulls into the side of the road.
Left turn onto the West Coast road. Haast, Greymouth, Westport. Across the Lewis. It’s a six-hour drive. It’s a very long way.
Or turn right to the city.
Gemma’s arms are clamped around her neck, her body pressed against her, and they’re laughing, whirling around, around, around.
And the surge of love she feels is like a sparkler bursting and raining bright fiery sparks into the dark.
She picks up her cell phone, presses in the numbers.
Acknowledgements
Thanks, as always, to Jim for his encouragement, support and for the music. Thanks to Amie for her careful reading of early chapters and the ongoing conversations, and thanks to Simon who continues to be an inspiration in his passion and commitment as a working artist. Much love and gratitude to Chris, Katleen, Gepke and Wayne, to my mother and to all of the members of our ever-increasing and always interesting Richardson-Mackay family.
I am grateful to Bill O’Brian for his generous sharing of information. And, finally, thanks to everyone at Penguin: Stephen Stratford for the meticulous editing and helpful comments, and Jeremy Sherlock for his consideration, guidance and hard work. Many thanks, above all, to Geoff Walker for his interest, enthusiasm and wise suggestions in the initial stages of the novel.
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First published by Penguin Group (NZ), 2010
Copyright © Paddy Richardson, 2010
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ISBN: 978-1-74-228723-2
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