The Good Daughter

by Brown, Honey

  He sighs. ‘Look, you’ll have to say we were both there but it was a blur. You can’t remember exactly what happened. You can say you’d had a bit to drink …’ His gaze softens a little. ‘We feel bad about it, okay – Aden feels bad. He didn’t want to get into this with you. We were just helping her out. It was no big deal. It’s only with what has happened that it’s turned out like this. No-one is questioning the story, as long as you don’t start going around saying it’s not true. It’s all gunna look pretty right if you don’t say much. And we’ve got the cops on our side, don’t forget.’ As an afterthought he adds, ‘And we’ve done nothing wrong.’

  30

  In the shed there’s a kerosene lamp and a card table and a couple of fold-out chairs. There’s an esky and a few crushed beer cans in the corner, and a small plastic bag of rubbish. The dirt floor is littered with cigarette butts. Zach walks across and looks down at the pile of cans. Something down in the dust catches his eye. At first he thinks it’s a biro, but on closer inspection he sees it’s a cigarette holder. He bends down and picks it up. He avoids touching the end where anyone’s lips would have been. He rests the slim plastic holder in the palm of his hand. It’s not even this, though, that confirms his mother’s presence here – it’s the colours of the place, the browns and dirty reds, the dark yellows. It’s the atmosphere she’s tried to capture in her paintings: the underside of life. Most people spend their time avoiding exposure to this, but it seems Zach’s mother sought it out. His father believes her to be dreamy, caught up in her own world, unable to separate reality from make-believe, but this would suggest otherwise. Zach takes a seat. He does a strange thing – he puts the cigarette holder between his fingers and thinks to slip inside his mother’s bones, beneath her skin, behind her eyes, to see the world as she might, but just as he feels on the edge of some kind of increased understanding, a chill goes through him.

  There’s a flash of light blue as someone walks past the door.

  Zach doesn’t move. He hears the person’s footsteps in the long grass beside the shed, and hears the brush of a shoulder against the tin, the dry rasp of clothes. The person stops, fiddles – snagged on those galvanised nails that so often work loose on sheds like this one. The footsteps fade, in the direction of the crop. Zach blinks. He breathes. He puts the cigarette holder down and carefully stands. There’s no further movement outside the door or around the shed. No-one else is out there, from what Zach can gather. The rifle is propped up, leaning against the table, the stock digging into the dusty floor. It crosses Zach’s mind to hide the gun in shadows beneath the table, because the weapon is dangerous – the most dangerous element in this, regardless of who is out there. And Zach has a strong suspicion that the person out there has a weapon of his own, in a holster on his belt, one he’s legally allowed to carry, aim and fire. The light-blue shirt gave it away.

  Zach stands a moment, thinking about what to do. He’s loath to even touch the rifle with a member of the constabulary so close. He tosses up the likelihood of being found if he stays put. He walks quietly to the shed wall and peers through the nail holes in the tin. As peepholes, though, they are hopeless, no more than frustrating pinpricks of tunnelled vision. He listens. There’s the faint sound of a bag being unzipped. Zach looks again at the doorway and thinks about sneaking out and around the side of the shed and off into the bush. He’d have to leave the rifle though – he can’t risk being caught creeping off with that. He clasps his hands beneath his chin and waits a moment. He hopes that while he stands there the cop will leave.

  He doesn’t.

  Long minutes pass. Zach gets impatient. He gets some bravery back. He looks around. The only thing of any interest or possible importance in the shed is the esky in the corner. It has a white top, silver handle and coloured psychedelic 70s swirls on the sides. It’s not as dusty and dirty as everything else in the shed. There’s suddenly a conspicuous air about it. Zach imagines a bundle of money inside it, a stash of drugs. He goes over to the esky. He pauses. What if there’s a severed hand or something of that nature on ice inside it? What if his mother upset the Aussie equivalent of Don Corleone, and in the esky is confirmation of the knock? Or not.

  Zach should check inside it. If there’s nothing there other than a few warm cans, all well and good. If there’s something in there, something other than warm cans, well, he needs to know so he can better work out whether to stay or go.

  Zach lifts the lid. He stays standing, so he’s as far away as he can be from the contents. He only lifts the lid a crack … leaning back … peering in … It’s too dark to see anything. There’s no unusual smell, not that he can detect. He takes the lid right off.

  There’s nothing in the esky. It’s empty. Of course.

  Because there is nothing in it, not even a bottle top or the plastic rings that hold a six-pack together, because it is so totally clean and bare, Zach puts down the lid, walks to the door, pushes it open and walks outside. He can’t believe what he was thinking. He’s had enough. He wants this over. He should be pleased a police officer has turned up. It’s the perfect opportunity for Zach to get his fears off his chest. He now has the opportunity to tell his father he came by a member of the law accidentally, and it won’t be a lie. He won’t feel as guilty for ratting on his own dad. Zach walks out into the light. He makes all the noise he needs to and walks like any normal person would. He stands in an open area of grass, in full view, with his hands by his sides, and looks towards the crop.

  Luke Redman is in among the plants. He’s in uniform. His gun is in its holster, where Zach imagined it to be. Luke has a Dunlop Volley sports bag open in one hand, and a pair of scissors – sharp ones, black-handled tailor’s scissors – in his other hand. He is walking along the rows, cutting plant heads from different bushes. He’s moving quickly, selecting the less prominent heads and leaving the main ones. He’s cutting close to the main stalk, and getting a fair bit of leaf with each head he takes. He checks in his bag, jiggles it, glances at his watch and stands still a moment … listening. He steps back and looks at the plant he just took a stalk from. He fluffs the plant with his hands, tilts his head, and fluffs the plant some more, judging if what he’s taken is easily noticed. Luke hasn’t seen Zach.

  Zach turns and walks back into the shed.

  He returns to the chair and sits.

  He sighs with resignation. At least he doesn’t feel such a fool now for worrying about what was in the esky. Police stealing from crooks confirms the need to be cautious.

  Luke leaves the same way he must have arrived – on foot. He walks briskly. The sports bag is zipped up tight, bulging at the seams. Zach watches from the shed door, peeping around the edge of it. Luke doesn’t glance back – he lifts his torso taller and scans the path ahead. Something spooks him and he darts to the side of the track. He crouches and waits a moment. He straightens and keeps on going, sticking closer to the trees. He breaks into a light jog. Zach loses sight of him as the track winds around the corner.

  Zach steps out from behind the shed door, and follows.

  31

  The couch cushions are made of scratchy material, burnt orange in colour, flecked with black. The foam is thin. The armrests are well-worn vinyl, torn and gouged in places. David was right – the room is cold. A peppercorn tree stops the sun from shining in through the windows. The gnarly branches and thin green leaves block the view of the street, although Rebecca can see bits and pieces of outside – a section of gutter, some blue sky, a street sign, a chimney. She can see Aden’s bike is gone. This still takes some getting used to; she’d like to walk up to the window and have a proper look. Maybe it’s not parked exactly where she thought it was? It might be back a little … Maybe he’s moved it to a safer place in the driveway. He’s particular about where he parks it, especially after he found a scratch on it the other day. She’s not comfortable enough to move to the window, though; every movement she makes is measured and tight. She sits on the couch cushions beside the armrest
, a place nearest to the door. Music plays. The boys lurch and grab at one another, they take up all the space. They act as if she’s not there, but their actions scream she is.

  They continue to talk loudly. Move loudly. Laugh loudly – still with those flinty gazes. The music is relentless. It has the same enthusiasm and angry lilt the boys have. One boy stands inexplicably on a chair and holds his beer can in two hands before him. He gyrates. It’s probably not even her inclusion that excites them – they’re most likely always this way when they get together.

  But being in the room is better than not being in the room, she decides. Here she can eyeball them, sum them up.

  There are the two from the swing (Simmo and Super Boy), Blake Stewart, who should know better, considering he’s from a church-going family, there’s David, and a boy with braces on his teeth – Slurp, they call him. He seems youngest. He’s acting the eldest though. He’s a newcomer to Kiona.

  He sits down beside her. ‘Why don’t you ever come to the pub on Friday nights?’ The words are wet, spoken between saliva, metal, and brightly coloured elastic bands.

  She doesn’t answer; she can’t see there’s much point. He smells as though he hasn’t been home yet from his Friday night at the pub.

  There are more boys out in the backyard. The only reason she knows this is because every so often the back door slams and the boys crane their necks to look through into the kitchen. Rebecca gets the feeling the boys outside are the real ones to watch, and in this way it’s best that she can’t see them.

  ‘A cup of tea,’ Simmo says in a high falsetto voice, and he puts down his beer to pretend he’s sipping from a small china cup.

  ‘Hey?’ she says.

  ‘Nigel drinks tea.’

  ‘Good for him.’

  Simmo comes across and climbs on the couch behind her. He stands on the cushions and takes hold of her shoulders. One of his knees presses against her back. He does some kind of suggestive act. She doesn’t turn to look; his groin would be at eye level. The boys laugh. Their gazes skate over her and settle more easily on Simmo. She sees how they admire the brazen way he touches her. They’d like to be as bold. Simmo climbs off the couch. She rubs her collarbones to erase his touch.

  Nigel walks in with a glass of Coke. He holds it out for her to take.

  ‘We’ll go soon,’ he says.

  Simmo snorts happily at this.

  Rebecca looks up at Nigel. She takes the drink and puts it down by her feet.

  ‘I’ll be five minutes,’ Nigel says. ‘I gotta make a call.’

  He leaves and walks towards the bedroom.

  ‘So, Rebecca,’ Simmo says. He parks himself down beside her. ‘Fill us in on all the latest – how’s Aden handling being a Kincaid?’ He sits close and rests his hand on her knee. She pushes it off and looks away, wishing desperately she was somewhere else.

  32

  Zach’s interest has been piqued. Did Luke come in a patrol car? Is Teddy Redman waiting? Are cops that brazen? Are they that bent? He walks purposefully between the wheel ruts that lead away from the shed and crop. A vehicle appears suddenly through the trees ahead. It’s revving high up a steep pinch and over the crest. Zach ducks behind a bush.

  Cummings drives his ute down the incline. He’s sitting up high in the cab, bouncing around due to the rough ground. His wife is beside him. She holds the handle above the door to stop from getting thrown about. They both stare straight-faced ahead. They remind Zach of the couple in the famous Grant Wood pitchfork painting. They’re as simply drawn and plain as that. They’re archetypal country. The ute passes by. Zach watches the vehicle bump and dip and dive towards the crop and shed. He edges closer. The vehicle brakes. Zach hides behind a tree – his back to the bark, his arms drawn in tightly to his sides, straining to hear above the murmur of the swaying leaves and the birdsong. He has the rifle held vertically in front of him, barrel pointing down. Safety first. He does not, at least, want to blow his own head off.

  The ute pulls in close to the fence. The Cummings stay in the vehicle – Zach imagines their matter-of-fact conversation. He knows the Cummings are not the sort of people to chat long, disagree, or even exchange opinions. Every time he’s been around them they’ve stood in mute support of one another. When they do speak, it’s direct – The rain was heavy last night. No discussion. Zach can almost hear their broad Kiona twang ringing in his ears – You get the pitchfork, I’ll get the shovel …

  He can’t believe it then when they climb from the cab and take a pair of shovels from the back.

  Mrs Cummings stands holding her shovel upright beside her while Mr Cummings pulls sheets of corrugated iron off the fence. She is wearing a long skirt and workboots. He has on baggy shorts and a flannelette shirt. His legs are spindly.

  Without any fuss or gesturing, they begin digging up the plants. They start with those bushes nearest to where they parked. She wields a shovel with the same efficiency as he does. They take each plant and shake the dirt from the roots and load it in the back of the ute. Mrs Cummings stops a moment and brings the back of her skirt up between her legs. She tucks the hem of the skirt into the waistband – forming a makeshift pair of shorts. Now the two of them are even dressed alike.

  They don’t talk. They work methodically, and in such a way to suggest they’re not going to stop until the crop is gone. The bushy plants quickly fill the back of the ute. Zach can see it’s going to take a couple of trips to get the place cleared. He rests on his haunches, watching them. He finds it relaxing to be distracted a moment, to witness a couple toiling away together, untroubled by a big job before them – already their faces glow with perspiration and their boots step heavily in the well-composted soil. Zach can’t help but wonder why they don’t channel this same doggedness into proper farming. Sheep mustn’t pay as well as drugs.

  Zach sits cross-legged in the undergrowth. He decides to wait out their first load. After about half an hour they climb into the cab. They’ve dug up only ten per cent of the crop. It’s going to take them all day. The plants they’ve taken are piled up high, jiggling, swaying in the back of the ute. They’ll soon return – they’ve left the section of fence pulled down, and their shovels are leaning side by side against the shed wall. Some of the plants slide off the ute onto the track. The vehicle brakes near where Zach is hiding.

  ‘We’ve got time to tie each load down,’ Mrs Cummings says as she climbs out of the cab. Her Kiona drawl travels easily to Zach.

  Mr Cummings gets out of the driver’s side holding a length of rope. They return the fallen plants to the top of the heap and begin tying down the load.

  ‘Big fire might be easy to spot after dark,’ Mrs Cummings says. ‘If we ain’t got all the plants out before sundown, might not be the best idea to burn them all tonight.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Not like Nigel to panic.’

  Mr Cummings pulls down on the rope and ties the knot. ‘Not like him at all,’ he says. The man straightens. Zach has a clear view of his face. He sees how impassive the man’s expression is as he says, ‘It can only mean she’s dead.’

  Zach walks in the same direction the Cummings drove. He follows their tracks. Half a kilometre or so along, he gets to a gate and stops. The bush is now behind him. Beyond the fence is a large undulating paddock, with a view right to the road. He can see the ute tracks bend off towards the Cummings’ house. He knows they have sheds in which to house or process plants, deep dark sheds in which to hide things.

  Zach looks away from the vehicle tracks and eyes the road. He lifts the rifle and looks through the scope. A dirt road leads off in the direction of town. He reads the writing on the signpost: Riddles Road. There’s a smaller sign, lower to the ground, in the shape of an arrow, pointing down Riddles Road. The smaller sign reads to River Trail.

  Zach gets a better picture of what has happened. His mother was here, she came through this gate, and travelled through this bush, she sat in the dark in that cold shed and waited. She
chose this sordid swamp-dwelling escape route. She mixed with these sordid swamp-dwelling types. And she wonders why Zach’s father loses his temper?

  Zach knows it’s wrong to blame his mother. He doesn’t – not really. It’s just that his fear flips and spins, it turns in on itself, it chews away inside him. His fear is like a trapped rat, looking for a way out.

  Zach hears the dogs barking high up on the ridge. He turns and looks. Their barks echo through the ranges.

  33

  One of the boys from the backyard has come inside. Randy Columbaris. Randy – of all the names … The problem is Rebecca knows him – they made out at a blue-light disco once. In the year that’s passed since then he’s bulked up in an unattractive way. His face is round. He carries extra weight on his hips and thighs, like a girl would.

  ‘She gives all right head,’ he says.

  By saying this he is, in an unfortunate way, talking her up. She did take Randy Columbaris in her mouth, but it was no stellar effort. It was awkward. She was straightening from the act in record time. Why is it that the popular girls in her class have done everything she has, with more boys than she has, yet their past deeds aren’t hung like a noose around their necks? Randy sits on the arm of the couch and smiles at her. ‘Are you gunna give us a demonstration?’

  She is squashed between Simmo and Randy. The other boys stand in a semicircle in front of her. What goes through her mind is how a blow job isn’t that bad, really, if that’s all they’re going to tease her about and – worst-case scenario – all she’s threatened with – well, she can handle that. She’s conscious at the same time of the flawed reasoning behind this, and how another part of her panics at the thought of being pressured.

  David puts his hands on her knees and suddenly pushes her legs apart. Rebecca tries to stand. What they do next is quick, but every detail is clear, as though it plays out slowly. David holds her knees apart and Simmo puts his hand between her legs. He cups his hand to her. Mmm, he breathes in her ear. The boys in front are split into two camps by this action – half grin, sly and thrilled, the other half drop their jaws wide, momentarily shocked, but only for a second. They quickly adjust their thinking, and see, by looking at the others, that this is normal Sunday morning behaviour.