by Janet Reid
‘Yes,’ said Tim. ‘The shed had collapsed. At least, that’s what Gran … ah, Mrs Ragdale said.’
‘You didn’t believe her?’
‘No. It was alright the week before …’ Tim stopped himself too late.
Silence settled over the room. Eventually Tara spoke.
‘You’d been out there before that?’ she asked.
Tim couldn’t look at his parents.
‘I’ve … ah, been out a couple of times,’ he admitted.
‘And did anything seem, well, not quite right when you were out there? Apart from the shed falling down?’ asked Tara.
‘Well …’ said Tim.
Everyone leaned in, waiting to hear what Tim had to say.
Tim licked his lips. ‘Well …’ he began again. ‘There’s been this man …’
Should he tell them about Barry Baxter?
‘This man …’ urged Tara.
Tim felt a hand rest on his shoulder. He turned, and looked at his father. His father nodded.
Tim turned back to Tara and took a deep breath. ‘His name’s Barry Baxter. I … I think he’s been annoying Mrs Ragdale. I … we … Lockie and me, we heard him say he was going to sort her out. Then last Monday, he was there. He was shouting at Mrs Ragdale. I … I think he wanted her to sell the place …’
Tim let his voice trail off. What if the fire had nothing to do with Oliver’s uncle?
‘Anything else?’ asked Tara.
Tim thought back to Monday afternoon. ‘Ah … he said something about the shed that had fallen over and … Oh!’ Tim gasped as he realised what Barry Baxter had said that afternoon.
‘What, Tim?’
‘He said that the place was only fit for a fire, something like that. Does that mean …’
Only the ticking of the wall clock could be heard as everyone took in this information.
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ said Tara eventually. ‘This has been extremely—’
‘He said something else,’ said Tim. ‘It was about his dog. Hobo.’
Tara frowned.
Tim wondered if he should have kept quiet about the dog. After all, it had been years ago. And hadn’t Granny Rags said she’d been speeding?
‘The dog, Tim. What about the dog?’ prompted Tara.
Tim sighed. ‘Mrs Ragdale said she hit Barry Baxter’s dog. Years ago. But last Monday, Barry Baxter said he’d make her pay for it.’
Tara scribbled in her notebook.
‘He didn’t say anything to you?’ asked Duncan.
‘No. He didn’t see me. I was under that tree out the front of Mrs Ragdale’s place.’
‘And this was just last Monday?’ asked Tara. ‘Why were you out there that day?’ She didn’t look up, just kept writing.
‘I … ah, took some library books out to her,’ he said, and winced when he heard his mother gasp.
‘And this Barry. You don’t think it was him here tonight?’ Tara asked.
‘No. I …’ Tim remembered the fingers, just inches from his face. Those fingers were too … skinny. Barry’s fingers were pudgy. And …
‘A ring,’ Tim whispered.
‘Pardon?’ said Tara.
‘On his finger. He was wearing a ring.’
‘Who was?’
‘The man here tonight.’
‘Are you sure? You said it was dark in here,’ said Duncan.
‘Yes, but his hand was, like, right next to my face.’ And Tim put his own hand where the man had placed his, then turned his head. His eyes were just inches from his middle finger.
‘Tim?’ asked Tara. ‘What’s the significance of the ring?’
‘There was a man in a ute,’ he said. ‘That’s what I’d forgotten. He stopped to ask us for directions to the creek this morning, and Lockie said he was wearing a ring.’
Excitement surged through Tim as he remembered how Lockie had described that ring – a lion’s head. Roaring. And that’s what he’d seen tonight.
‘What time was that?’ asked Tara.
‘Don’t know. But we’d only just left home. We were walking down the road to the creek.’
‘They left the house at about ten,’ said his mother.
‘Hmmm. That’s a long time before the fire started,’ said Tara, making another note. ‘Did you get a close look at this man?’
‘Sort of,’ said Tim.
‘So you’d know him again if you saw him?’ asked Tara.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Tim. ‘He was wearing a hat. And sunglasses. You know, the sort where you can’t see their eyes.’
‘Reflectives,’ muttered Duncan.
‘Anything else about him that you remember?’ asked Tara.
‘No,’ said Tim. ‘I didn’t even see the ring. It was Lockie who saw that. He told me about it later. But there was something else.’
‘Yes?’ said Tara, leaning forward as if she somehow knew that Tim was about to say something important.
‘Well, when we first noticed the fire, I think I saw that blue ute again. Driving towards town. And I think it was going fast, because there was lots of dust blowing about.’
Chapter Twenty-One
They went home, right then, in the middle of the night. Dad drove, and Mum sat in the back with Tim. The streets of Rowington were dark and Tim looked up at the clear black sky with its sliver of moon and millions of twinkling stars. The night sky was never like this back in the city.
Suddenly headlights shone through the back window. Tim sat up in alarm, turned and looked back.
‘Don’t worry. It’s only the police,’ said Dad. Tim could hear an edge to his voice.
‘Why are they following us?’
‘Well, you’re pretty important to them at the moment, so you’re getting police protection.’
‘Not that they really expect that man to try and find you at home,’ added his mother, reassuringly. ‘He wouldn’t even know where you live.’
But Tim could hear an edge to her voice as well.
When they pulled into their driveway, a policeman walked over to Ben’s side of the car. ‘Stay there and keep the doors locked,’ he said. ‘We’ll just check the house and gardens first. Just to be on the safe side.’
When they got the all-clear, one of the officers stayed, settling himself down in the lounge with a large cup of coffee while Tim was ordered to bed.
‘Do you want me to leave a light on?’ asked Dad as he checked the windows in Tim’s room just to be sure they were locked. He pulled the curtains, blocking out the darkness of the night.
Tim shook his head. ‘No. It’s okay. The lounge light’s on,’ he said. He pulled up his doona even though it wasn’t cold.
Dad sat down on the bed. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘everything’s locked up and Constable Blackwood is just in the lounge if anything should happen. But my bet is this man won’t be hanging round here. And if he is, then he’ll be found. You can’t hide a blue ute like that for too long in a small town.’ He reached over and brushed the hair off Tim’s forehead. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I think you were very brave today. Your mother and I are both proud of you. Especially since … you know … the accident.’ He ruffled Tim’s hair. ‘Now see if you can get some sleep. How’s your ankle, by the way? Not hurting too much?’
‘No,’ said Tim. The nurse had put an ice pack on it, and later she’d strapped it. Now he hardly noticed it.
‘Good. Just let me know if it starts to hurt.’ And he stood to leave.
‘Dad?’ said Tim.
Ben turned back. Tim could see worry etched on his face.
‘Yes, son?’
‘Mrs Ragdale. She’ll be alright, won’t she? I mean, that man, he won’t do anything to her, will he?’
Ben smiled. ‘No, Tim. She’ll be safe. She’s in the intensive care ward, remember? A nurse will be with her all the time. But the police aren’t taking any chances. They said they’d be posting someone in the ward with her until this man is caught. Now, get some sleep. It’s way past midn
ight.’
But Tim couldn’t sleep. He lay awake thinking about everything that had happened. His fingers touched his left shoulder where it was bruised, and he felt the skin – raised and lumpy. He listened to the sounds of the house. His mother and father, talking softly in their bedroom. The clink of an empty coffee cup as Constable Blackwood placed it on the glass-topped coffee table.
Outside, he could hear branches swaying in the breeze. Somewhere a curlew cried out in the night. Tim shuddered at the sound. And there was the creaking of the old house as it cooled in the night air.
All the usual sounds. But none that worried Tim as he rolled onto his side and drifted off to sleep at last.
He wasn’t sure what woke him, or even how long he’d been asleep, but slowly the events of the day before seeped back into his memory. As his eyes began to adjust to the dim light, he realised he wasn’t in hospital, but in his own bed. And he remembered there was a policeman in the house. Protecting him.
He rolled over.
‘Oh,’ he cried as he saw the silhouette of a man standing in the doorway, the dim light from the lounge behind him.
‘It’s okay,’ came a voice. ‘It’s just me. Constable Blackwood. I didn’t mean to wake you. Just checking.’
Tim sat up, trying to calm himself. He’d had enough of men creeping up on him in the dark.
‘Go back to sleep. I’m just going to do the rounds outside,’ said the constable.
As Tim watched Constable Blackwood’s figure retreat down the hallway, he was sure that sleep would not come back to him. Instead he lay listening to the sounds of the night once more. He heard heavy footfalls outside in the garden and hoped it was just the constable. He lifted the corner of his curtain and looked out. A torch light swung back and forth through the bushes. Yes, just the police patrol.
He dropped the curtain and lay back on his bed, thinking of the fire and of Granny Rags, and wondered how Lockie was going. They’d have plenty to talk about when they saw each other.
His eyes were beginning to droop when again a figure appeared at his bedroom door.
‘Find anything out there?’ Tim asked sleepily.
There was no reply.
Tim pushed himself up on one elbow as the figure took a step forward.
‘Now where were we when we were interrupted?’ said a voice. A voice that sent shivers through every part of Tim’s body.
He gasped as the man took a few steps closer and hissed, ‘I’ve just come to finish things off. Seems you don’t know how to keep your mouth shut. Well, I’m going to shut it for you.’
The man reached forward and yanked the pillow from under Tim’s head.
In that instant, Tim knew what this man intended to do and there was no way he was going to let that happen. He tried to call out, but the pillow was pressed against his face before he had a chance.
But not before Tim heard the crunch of boots on dried leaves outside his window.
Constable Blackwood.
Tim heaved his legs out from under the doona, and kicked them hard against the wall.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
There was a rap at the window.
‘Are you alright in there, Tim?’ called the constable.
The man, distracted for a moment, pulled back. And Tim took his chance.
‘No,’ he screamed, but the word was lost as the pillow once again came down on his face.
He’s not going to get me, thought Tim.
And he lashed out with his legs, striking the wall again, and felt pain shoot through his injured ankle as the heel of his foot struck the window. Glass shattered and the pillow dropped from Tim’s face. As he gasped for air he saw the man rushing from the bedroom.
No, he’s not going to get away.
And Tim felt a sudden rage for this man who had tried to take Granny Rags’ home, and her life. And his own.
For some reason, Tim pictured Oliver playing footy, running up behind his victims and tackling them to the ground. And Tim knew how that had felt.
Without a second thought, he leapt from the bed and launched himself at the retreating figure as a roar bounced off the walls and echoed down the hallway. The man turned his head and Tim could see the look of shock on his face.
The next thing he was lying on the worn carpet trying to suck in air. Stars danced before his eyes. Hands grabbed him, lifted him roughly from the floor, but as he tried to scream, no noise came. He swung out, hitting at the arms that lifted him, kicked out, hoping that something would connect. But the hands just held him tighter.
‘Tim, it’s alright. I’ve got you. You’re alright. Just breathe.’
But Tim couldn’t seem to catch his breath. He was going to die.
‘Tim. Breathe.’
He sucked again, and felt some air reach his lungs. He gasped once more.
‘Slowly now,’ the voice ordered. Dad? And as the spots in front of Tim’s eyes cleared he looked up at his father’s concerned face, and his mother’s too, right above him.
‘The man,’ he said. ‘He was here.’
‘It’s okay. Blackwood’s got him. He’s been caught, thanks to you.’ And Ben, tears in his eyes, grabbed Tim into a hug so tight it almost took the breath right out of him again.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tim followed his father into the darkened room. He gazed down at Granny Rags lying so still in her bed, her silver-grey hair fanning out across the pillow. An oxygen mask still covered her face.
She stirred and opened her eyes.
‘Ah, you’re awake. How are you this morning, Mrs Ragdale?’ Ben gently took hold of her wrist and glanced at his fob watch. ‘Did you sleep well?’
Mrs Ragdale coughed.
‘Let me sit you up a bit higher,’ said Ben. ‘You’ll feel more comfortable.’ He took the controls and pressed one of the buttons. The bed head began to rise. He gently pulled Mrs Ragdale forward and adjusted the pillows behind her back. ‘There, is that better?’ he said as he swung his stethoscope from his neck to check her breathing.
‘That sounds much better than last night,’ he told her. ‘The doctor still wants you to have some oxygen from time to time, but I might take it off while you have some breakfast. Tea and toast alright with you?’
‘That would be lovely,’ said Mrs Ragdale, nestling back into the pillows. Her eyes flickered over to Tim.
‘Yes, I’ve brought you a visitor,’ said Ben. ‘You feel up to a bit of company?’
Mrs Ragdale smiled and reached out a trembling hand. Tim took it in his, felt the paper-thin skin and the knobbly arthritic joints, and smiled back at her.
‘I’ll see about breakfast,’ said Ben. He opened the blinds to let in the morning light, then left the room. Minutes later, Mrs Ragdale was eating toast and marmalade and sipping hot sweet tea while Tim sat beside her and his father wrote notes on her chart.
When she was finished, she settled back against the pillows.
‘That was lovely, thank you,’ she said.
Ben pushed the over-bed table away and sat opposite Tim.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘I’ll let Tim tell you what’s happened overnight, and I think the police will be in for a chat when you’re feeling up to that. But first, I’ve got a couple of questions of my own.’
Tim cringed. He had a feeling they wouldn’t be about the fire.
He was right.
‘How long has Tim been going out to see you?’
Mrs Ragdale smiled. ‘Not long,’ she said. ‘I think since about when you first arrived in Rowington.’
Ben raised his eyebrows and looked across at his son. ‘That long?’ he said. ‘Well, I hope he wasn’t a nuisance.’
Mrs Ragdale turned to look at Tim. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘He was never a nuisance. I enjoyed the company. And Lockie’s, too, when he eventually plucked up the courage to come along.’
‘I can’t imagine anyone having to work up courage to go and visit you, Mrs Ragdale,’ said Ben.
Mrs Ragdale laughed. ‘Well,
Mr Trickett, obviously you haven’t heard the stories.’
‘The stories?’ He looked across at Tim.
‘You remember,’ said Tim. ‘Jacob told Mum.’
Ben frowned and shook his head. ‘Remind me.’
‘That she’s a witch,’ hissed Tim across the bed. But he wasn’t prepared for his father’s reaction.
Ben threw back his head and laughed. ‘And you knew about this?’ he asked Mrs Ragdale.
Mrs Ragdale reached over and took Tim’s hand again. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But I’m so glad that Tim didn’t believe it. You’ve got a wonderful boy here, Mr Trickett. You should be very proud of him.’
‘We are,’ said Ben. And Tim could feel himself going red. He hated it when grown-ups talked about him like he wasn’t there. Still, there was something … special … about Granny Rags, and his father, being proud of him.
‘You know,’ said Ben, talking to Mrs Ragdale but looking at his son, ‘it wouldn’t have been easy for Tim to face a fire like that.’
Tim felt a jolt of fear rush through him. No. Don’t tell her. His left shoulder throbbed.
‘Dad—’
‘You should tell her,’ his father said gently. ‘She’ll understand.’
Every nerve in Tim’s body tingled; his limbs felt heavy; his stomach churned. Then he felt a soft velvety hand rest on his arm.
‘It’s alright, Tim. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,’ said Granny Rags softly.
Tim looked across at his father, wanting to be angry with him, but his father had a way of making things seem reasonable, just by tilting his head to one side.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Ben after a moment of silence. ‘I’ve got some reports to write up.’ And he left the room.
They both listened as the sound of his footsteps faded into the noises of the hospital, neither wanting to be the first to break the silence. In the end it was Mrs Ragdale who spoke.
‘You don’t have to tell me, but I am pretty good at keeping a secret,’ she said.
But I’m not, thought Tim, and he wondered how he was going to tell her he’d blurted out the story about the dog to the class.
‘Tim …’
He’d have to do it now.