Shoot Through

by J. M. Green

‘No. He left before we arrived. Nothing the hospital could do.’

  ‘You should follow that up. I took down his number plate, if you want it.’

  A pause. ‘You took the number plate?’

  ‘As a concerned citizen, yes. Definitely his car. I saw him park it there.’

  ‘You saw him?’

  ‘That’s right. I happened to be looking out the window. He parked in front of my building, next thing the same guy is strapped to an ambulance gurney.’

  ‘Did you see anyone approach him? Who else was there?’

  ‘No one.’ I checked my photo. ‘Nissan Navara ST-X, silver.’ I read out the registration.

  ‘Stella. Tell me the truth. Are you in trouble?’

  ‘Trouble? Of course not.’

  ‘Meet me for a drink later?’

  ‘Can’t today. I’m on my way to the farm.’

  ‘Great! I’ll see you up there. I’m going rock climbing near Woolburn on Saturday —’

  Luckily another call sounded. ‘Sorry Phuong, got another call. Talk to you later.’

  I was so relieved to have her off the line that I swiped the other call without looking at who was calling.

  ‘Stella? It’s Thursday.’ It was Fatima. What did that mean? Thursday was a workday, sure. ‘Where on earth are you?’ Fatima said, concern in her voice.

  Where? In the vast splendour of the Wimmera, where glorious autumn sun shone on the golden landscape, and the majestic peaks of The Grampians rose up in the west. A magpie in a tree let forth a complex morning warble. In spite of the seriousness of my situation, a burst of happiness exploded in my heart.

  ‘I’m at home,’ I said.

  ‘Everyone’s here. The other agencies are all here. We’re waiting for you.’

  ‘Waiting for what?’

  ‘… I can’t believe I have to say this, Stella. For the presentation.’ Her words were an ice-cold slap.

  The presentation. Thursday. Today. I started to cough. ‘I’m very sick. It’s a bad cold. I think it’s the flu.’

  ‘You’ve already had one warning, Stella.’ I’d never heard Fatima so angry. ‘Consider this your second. One more stuff up like this and —’

  ‘I know, I know. Can you reschedule?’

  I heard a kind of hiss. That was not a good sign. ‘For when?’

  ‘Tuesday — after the long weekend. I’m sure I’ll be right by then.’

  She hung up without a word.

  I went into the general store and bought two chocolate Big M’s and two pineapple doughnuts. I ate mine waiting for Loretta and Nigel to return. I should have been worried about work. But I wasn’t. I was having a moment.

  This was the land of my childhood, and I almost didn’t recognise it. The familiar was new again. I’d never noticed these subtle colours before, or experienced this feeling of an ancient land humming with truth. I’d driven on this road at Christmas, without a hint of possible communion, or sensing the danger of imminent transcendence. Yet now I finally understood this place was miraculous. The immensity of the sky, the waft of fragrant breeze. The magpie finished her song, and I almost burst into applause.

  I resolved to lay off the doughnuts.

  19

  WE TURNED off the highway onto the Stawell-Warracknabeal Road. We passed through Minyip, then Warracknabeal, and drove for another two hours. Loretta leaned forward and pointed to a bump on the horizon.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Mount Woolburn,’ I said. ‘We’re nearly there.’

  Since we’d left Great Western, I’d been preparing my speech to my mother. It involved appeals to her better nature; it had to be in there somewhere. I presumed this on account of her Catholicism. However, I had yet to witness true acts of Christian kindness on her part. Sure, she pitched in when neighbours needed help. It was in her rural DNA. To people in crisis who were considered different, who lived outside her circle, to them she was harsh. Those individuals only had themselves to blame for their plight. What next? Allow people fleeing persecution into the country? Not on your nelly. This black-and-white world view formed the foundation of Delia’s thinking. And it meant that Loretta would be a fifty-fifty call.

  Delia might decide Loretta was family, and, provided she conformed utterly to Hardy family rules, she would be welcome to stay. Those rules included hard work, never talking about uncomfortable facts (like the plight of people fleeing persecution) or vegetarianism. Never talking politics; the National Party were just terrific thank you very much, if you ignore the sleaze, the rorts, and the hostility to vital river protection agreements. It included a directive to dress in a manner becoming of a 1950’s woman. To know one’s place. To know that capitalism, with a pinch of protectionism and a soupçon of agrarian socialism, was an unquestionable good. Delia was not to be challenged on any decision. She knew best, and everyone else was a fool or a nitwit. Or, after a few beers, a bloody ratbag troublemaker.

  Alternatively, Delia might consider Loretta to be not one of us. She was not your clean-cut, tennis-playing, horse-riding, sponge-baking, quilt-(or other authorised craft)-making supporter of men. She was a young, unmarried, pregnant daughter of an itinerant worker. She spoke her mind. She certainly didn’t follow any of the rules I had laid down. And she had a free-range Alaskan Malamute. Only cattle dogs and Shih tzus were acceptable dog breeds.

  There were problems aplenty with either judgement. I tried to brace for every possible outcome.

  At last we arrived. I drove slowly up the long driveway, avoiding two BMX bikes carelessly dropped on the road, a soccer ball, and a plastic basketball hoop in pieces, and stopped.

  The garden beds were in a bad way. Plants drooped for want of a drink, weeds encroached. The lawn was not mowed, edges were not snipped with laser precision. It wasn’t neglect as such, but I knew my mother, and anything other than flowerbed perfection was a sign of insanity on the part of the occupants. What, I wondered, had happened here?

  Delia’s car was not in the shed, nor that of my stepfather, Ted. Kylie’s white RAV4 was in the driveway, and behind it, an unfamiliar Commodore. I tooted the Mazda’s horn: the universal language for put the kettle on. Then I advised Loretta and Nigel to explore the garden.

  I grabbed the folder holding Kylie’s legal documents and walked up the front steps. A door-slam inside, then a thump, a person running. I heard Kylie say, ‘Shit, it’s Stella.’

  A man swore, and it wasn’t my brother-in-law, Tyler.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Kylie said behind the closed door. ‘Wasn’t expecting you till Saturday.’

  ‘Open the damn door, Kylie, we’ve been up driving since the crack of sparrows, and I need to use the loo.’

  ‘Just a minute.’

  More running and slamming. Finally, the door opened, and Kylie stood there, blocking my way, in an inside-out t-shirt, jeans, and bare feet, looking flushed and dishevelled. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Let me in.’

  ‘Sure. Okay. I mean, the place is a little untidy.’ She didn’t move.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’

  ‘They’ve moved. They’re in the unit.’

  ‘Already? No one told me.’

  She smiled. ‘Yeah, we’ve been here for weeks now.’

  ‘You said you couldn’t move in until you had the paperwork. You hassled me nonstop. I had to go back to the fucking prison.’

  ‘It’s called trust, Stella. Mum trusts me. I still require those documents, but in the meantime, we realised there was no reason to wait to take possession of the farm.’

  ‘Let me the fuck in.’

  She glanced behind her. Someone whispered. She stepped aside, and I started in. A shaved gorilla in a singlet pushed passed me. Shane Farquhar.

  Shane. Fucking. Farquhar. This did not make sense. My old high school tormentor? The man who had hoped to buy the farm from my mo
ther before Kylie got involved was having an affair with … Kylie?

  ‘Hardy.’ More threat than salutation.

  ‘Shane.’

  ‘Your fucking timing is perfection as usual.’ He stomped off to his car.

  ‘How’s your wife?’ I called after him.

  ‘I’ll tell her you said that.’ He revved the motor, spun the wheels on the gravel. He drove over the lawn, onto the driveway, and fish-tailed away.

  I used the bathroom and had a quick check of the cabinet, found it stocked with expensive cleansers, exfoliants, and make-up. My mother had indeed left the building. Astonishing. I never thought I’d see the day.

  My sister was in the kitchen, a room large enough for an old wood-fired stove in a brick alcove and an electric stove built into a long bench. My mother’s ten-seater Laminex dining table was still in centre place. Delia had, I noticed, left a lot of furniture behind.

  ‘What the hell are you playing at?’

  Kylie smirked. ‘Free country.’

  ‘But Shane-fucking-Farquhar. He is the worst human being in human history.’

  She filled the kettle. ‘Tiger in the sack.’

  I nearly gagged. ‘He made my life a misery in high school.’

  ‘Water under the bridge. You should move on.’

  My bridge was clogged with garbage, dead fish, plastic bags. An abandoned car was under there, rotting corpses inside. Nothing was getting through.

  ‘Who’s your friend?’ She pointed out the window to Loretta, who was struggling to get her trolley out of the Mazda’s boot.

  ‘Long story.’

  Kylie turned slowly back to me, fierce expression, demanding obedience. She was the matriarch now. ‘I’ve got time.’

  Where to start? The lax supervision at the prison? Eww. In the lull, a brand-new side-by-side fridge began to vibrate impatiently. ‘She’s … I mean. Her boyfriend. That is …’

  Enter Loretta, wheeling her trolley. ‘I’m Loretta. Ben’s wife.’

  Kylie took in the belly, the grubby hands, the pixie face. ‘Wait till Mum hears this.’

  ‘Common-law wife,’ I said. ‘And it might be best to let me explain the situation.’

  Kylie snorted. ‘It won’t make any difference who tells her.’

  It pained me to admit it, but she was probably right about that.

  Kylie seemed cheered by Loretta’s arrival, and remembered her manners. ‘You guys hungry?’

  Loretta said she was. Kylie took a bowl from the fridge and nuked it in the microwave. She cleared the table of papers, and then distributed plates. The kettle sang, and she made three mugs of tea. She dumped some cutlery on the table and dropped into a chair, as though exhausted from the effort.

  ‘Give us the papers, then.’ She put her hand out. ‘I’ll call the lawyer this arvo, get this thing finalised.’

  I opened the folder. It contained a copy of Who Weekly. I removed the magazine. Nothing. No contract.

  A moment passed. The microwave dinged. Kylie put her head to the side, looking at me impassively. ‘Am I missing something? Why are you here if you didn’t bring the papers?’

  ‘It’s not Stella’s fault,’ Loretta piped up.

  She ignored Loretta. Her eyes drilled into mine. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘This bloke was going to kill us,’ Loretta said. ‘We had to run for our lives.’

  Kylie’s eyes widened in an expression of mock horror.

  This was going to be torture. ‘Um. It’s true. Kind of.’

  The fridge shuddered and became silent. Kylie’s face and neck were pink. She retrieved the nuked bowl and slammed it on the table. Loretta started to spoon stew onto her plate.

  ‘You’re two days early,’ Kylie started. ‘Totally unannounced. One of Ben’s skanks with you. And yet you didn’t bring the papers, the only reason for you to come here.’

  ‘So it would seem. I’m sorry,’ I said, tapping the folder. ‘I thought they were in here.’

  ‘I really don’t understand. I mean, I only reminded you to bring them a million times.’

  ‘We left in such a rush —’ Loretta began.

  Kylie cut her off with a weaponised glare, then turned on me. ‘You want to undermine the arrangement. Don’t you?’

  ‘Rooting Shane Farquhar is undermining the arrangement.’

  Kylie ha ha ha-ed like a pantomime villain. ‘Are you judging me? That’s rich.’

  I shook my head. But I was, and that made me an A-grade hypocrite. My past was as shady as an English country lane. A stupid dalliance with a married man called Jacob had ended badly and sent me down on a journey into the dark night of the soul, with a stopover at internal turmoil, and a tour of the ancient sites of self-hatred. The cost? It had nearly derailed my friendship with Phuong. Kylie didn’t know that; none of the family knew. I liked to keep certain things from them. Like everything about me.

  ‘I know what you’re up to. You want the farm, don’t you?’

  Now I laughed. ‘Not in a million years.’

  ‘Then it’s Ben, the treacherous little bastard.’

  Loretta inhaled in horror. ‘Never!’

  ‘Relax, Kylie. No one wants the farm. But if Loretta could stay here for a while, that would be very much appreciated.’

  Kylie blinked. ‘Are you out of your mind?’

  ‘Look at her,’ I said. Meaning, see how pregnant and how harmless.

  ‘Fuck you, Stella.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a no,’ Loretta said.

  ‘You’re staying here,’ I said with fresh determination. ‘You can have my old room.’

  ‘Er, no. She can’t.’

  ‘Let her stay, and you’ll have the documents by next week.’

  Kylie placed both hands on the table and raised herself to standing. ‘What’s this, some kind of slimy form of coercion? Your true colours at last.’

  What were my colours? Grumpy purple, martyred orange, criminal-gang-money-stealing blue, maybe throw in some lilac for my excessive devotion to one Peter Brophy, and finish with a sprinkle of yellow for my constant state of fear.

  ‘That your wolf?’ she said to Loretta.

  ‘Alaskan —’

  ‘Lock it in the shed. My kids’ll be home soon. If it so much as growls at them, you’re out on your arse. Got that?’

  Loretta was out like a shot, whistling for Nigel to come.

  ‘I’ll give you some money for food,’ I said, opening my wallet. ‘Damn thing eats like an elephant.’

  ‘The dog or the girl?’

  ‘Both.’ I held out a colourful posy of legal tender.

  She took a fifty. ‘You staying, too?’

  ‘Just a few days.’ Velvet Stone’s murderer would be in custody soon … I hoped. Phuong would trace the number plate. Witnesses at Dights Falls. Shouldn’t be too long.

  ‘Try the pub. We’re out of bedrooms.’

  She was a shocker. I nodded. ‘Where’s Tyler?’

  ‘Livestock auction in Horsham, be back tonight.’ She sighed. ‘You might as well eat.’

  I looked at the stew. ‘I’m good.’

  ‘No, Stella. You’re really not.’ A scowl, a toss of hair, and she glided away, head high, a Shakespearean monarch, all the way to the exit, stage right.

  She was mean, she was greedy. But she knew how to leave a room. Respect, queen.

  20

  ‘BLOODY BULLSHIT is what it is.’ Loretta came stomping in and straddled a kitchen chair.

  ‘Easy, cowgirl. The world’s drowning in bullshit. You’re going to have to be more specific.’

  ‘He’s not a wolf and he’s not aggressive.’

  ‘True.’ Nigel was a sweet-natured, loyal dog. He also weighed more than she did, and ate more in one sitting. ‘But you’re a guest here.’ I lifted my shoulders, sh
owed her my palms.

  ‘Rules. Everyone’s got rules. I get it.’ She unhooked the tartan case from the trolley, flipped the catches, and took out the dog blanket and a chew toy.

  ‘At least you’ve got a place to stay till the baby comes.’

  ‘I do?’ It appeared to slowly dawn on her that I’d delivered her to the farm, just as Ben had promised. ‘Oh, Stella.’ She dropped the dog’s things and hugged my neck.

  ‘Next time, just say thanks,’ I gasped. ‘I’m staying in the pub, but I’ll be back tomorrow.’

  Loretta released me and smiled sheepishly. Then she noticed the brochures Kylie had left on the sideboard. ‘Annual Weaner Calf Sale? What’s all this?’

  ‘My sister plans to turn the farm into a Dexter stud.’

  She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘They’re small —’ I started to say.

  ‘Irish. I know. Probably a good move. The meat is better. Better for the environment, too.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe. A cow’s a cow, right?’

  ‘No way. The smaller breeds produce less methane, lighter on the land, less feed. A good idea, I reckon.’

  She knew cattle breeds and their impacts, knew tag technology. I started to appreciate that Loretta was not a dippy elf, but an agricultural aficionado. ‘Make sure you tell Kylie that.’

  ‘Grandad reckons stockyards and agents don’t like the small cattle and don’t support them. Rumours are, the butchers don’t like them either.’

  ‘Maybe don’t tell her that part.’

  ‘But he says they’re wrong. Small cattle make a quality steak, very tender and more flavour. They’re smaller, but customers prefer that rather than a great slab that flops over the side of the plate. That’s what he reckons.’

  ‘Great,’ I said. As a vegetarian, none of that mattered to me. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  I sent my mother a text to say I was coming. Then I drove to Ouyen, with directions to Delia’s new unit in my phone. I wondered what state the farm would be in when I returned tomorrow. Kylie and Loretta on good terms, having bonded over the finer points of stock feed and worming? Experience had taught me to adjust my expectations lower. More likely, they’d both be dead, having murdered each other simultaneously. A hard thing to do, but they would find a way.