by JR Carroll
Finally, he hauled himself up to the top. With a mighty effort he pulled his leg free of the animal’s jaws, and crawled over onto the roadside. There he collapsed.
*
Cornstalk had no idea how long he was out for since it was still dark and it was still raining.
His injuries were taking their toll. Would’ve been so easy just to lie there, go to sleep forever, but he wasn’t built to give up. He was built to stand his ground, and never yield.
Right now, as he lifted his head from the roadside, he wasn’t feeling highly motivated. He was feeling pain, and not much else. His part-eaten leg throbbed; there was extreme pain in his hand, ribs and abdomen; and the side of his head hurt where he’d banged it in the car crash.
On top of all that, he’d lost so much blood. His head was fuzzy; he barely had the strength to move his limbs as he sought to crawl along the roadside. But crawl he did, like a half-squashed cockroach that just doesn’t know how to quit.
In this manner he made it to the middle of the road. The chances of a car coming by were remote, non-existent even, but it was his only hope.
He looked one way, then the other. Nothing. At this point he wasn’t even sure which was the way out of the goddamn forest. It looked the same either way.
He lowered his face, resting it on the gravel. Nothing but silence and darkness surrounded him.
The rain continued to fall, ever so gently. He couldn’t have got any wetter.
He began to think about his son, Rory. How old would he be now? Cornstalk couldn’t figure it out. He couldn’t even remember the year he was born.
It seemed that he was dreaming when he heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. Surely miracles didn’t really happen. He lifted his face into the dazzling glare of headlights. Would he be saved after all?
The car was slowing. Then it stopped, right in front of him. The car door opened, and someone got out.
‘Help me!’ Cornstalk said in a pathetic voice. His head dropped onto the road.
A pair of feet crunched gravel as the man drew closer. Then he got down on his haunches, grabbed a handful of Cornstalk’s hair and lifted up his head, so he could see his face with the aid of the headlights.
‘Cornstalk? Is that you? Holy Christ!’ He let go of Cornstalk’s hair, and stood up.
Cornstalk struggled to prop himself on one elbow. With his other arm he shielded his eyes from the powerful halogen headlights.
All he could see was the man’s silhouette.
‘Christ, you’re a mess,’ the man said. ‘What in hell are you doing here in the middle of the road, anyhow?’
‘I need help,’ Cornstalk told him.
‘So you said.’ But the man made no move to do anything for him.
‘I don’t want to die here.’
The man took time to light a cigarette. He then bent over, placing it between Cornstalk’s bleeding lips.
Cornstalk nearly choked on the first puff.
‘So what’s the situation?’ the man said. ‘You get the lawyer, or what?’
Even though Cornstalk couldn’t see him, he figured he knew who the man was now.
‘Uh, no. He … got away.’
‘What do you mean, he got away? Got away how?’
‘Everything was OK,’ Cornstalk said, trying to puff on the cigarette. ‘But this other bastard showed up, spoiled the party.’
‘What other bastard?’
‘Dunno who he was. Came in, shootin’ … got me a couple times.’
‘And where’s he now? Still there?’
‘He’s dead,’ Cornstalk said. ‘Christo got him.’
‘Well, that’s something. Where’s Christo?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Christo’s dead? But you just said he got this other guy.’
‘He did. I dunno what happened exactly. But Christo’s dead.’
‘Stav? What about the Canuck?’
Cornstalk hesitated. ‘Dead, too—I think.’
‘Jesus, Cornstalk—what do you mean, you think?’
‘I … I didn’t really notice at the end. I lost track of him. It was fuckin’ mayhem, man.’ In truth, he’d been in such a hurry to get out, he hadn’t noticed what had happened to the Canadian.
‘Mayhem,’ the man said. ‘And I thought you guys were professionals.’ He then adopted a more serious tone before asking his next question. ‘What about the woman, Amy?’
‘She’s OK.’ Cornstalk thought better of mentioning anything about the gang bang.
The man got down on his haunches again, peering into Cornstalk’s glazed eyes. ‘So you’re the last man standing. Figuratively speaking, of course.’
Cornstalk didn’t know what that meant, but he had a vague idea.
‘Where’s the lawyer, Corny?’
‘Uh … still at the house, far as I know. Couldn’t go anywhere. We fucked up his car.’
‘Well,’ the man said, standing up, ‘you did something right. Jesus.’
‘You gotta help me, man. I been shot up, I been eaten by a pig—’
‘Eaten by a pig? Christ, Cornstalk—you been on the fuckin’ mushrooms?’
‘I’m not kidding! Fuckin’ big mother chewed my leg half off.’
The man inspected Cornstalk’s leg. He whistled at what he saw. ‘Not pretty, mate,’ he announced. ‘I won’t even ask what you were doing, wandering around in the fuckin’ wilderness.’
‘I gotta get to a hospital. I need intensive care,’ Cornstalk said. ‘Come on, man, I’m beggin’ you.’
The man was standing right over Cornstalk now. He produced something indistinct from his jacket pocket. But Cornstalk had a pretty good idea what it was, and what was coming.
‘You don’t need a hospital, mate,’ he told him. ‘I’ll give you intensive care.’ The man extended his arm.
Cornstalk’s whole life didn’t flash before his eyes in that final moment. All he thought was: what a fuckin’ way to go.
The man put one into Cornstalk’s face. Then he stepped closer, put another in the side of his head. Then he dragged the body by the leg that hadn’t been gnawed, pushing it down the embankment with his foot, into the shrubbery where it couldn’t easily be seen.
Any luck, the rain would wash away the blood on the road.
Not far away, a pair of red eyes turned in the direction of the disturbance. The beast grunted before lumbering through the dense undergrowth towards the embankment.
41
Tim was busying himself, trying to straighten out the mess in the kitchen.
He was picking up chairs, plates, pots and pans, cutlery, the shattered lantern, all the debris on the floor.
There was a lot of broken glass, and food and condiments from their meal.
He cleaned it up as best he could, stacking everything on the counter or in the sink. It was part of a crime scene that shouldn’t be interfered with, but what the hell. Tim was past caring.
When he turned around from the sink, Amy was right there, helping. He hadn’t heard her come into the kitchen. She’d been sitting on the couch inside, holding herself tightly, watching over the still form of Jimmy on the floor.
They went about it wordlessly, each submerged in a world of dark, nightmarish thoughts. But at least they had survived.
When the kitchen floor was more or less cleaned up, Tim grabbed two legs of the redgum table and tried to turn it over. It was bloody heavy. Amy put her shoulder to it, and together they got it right side up, in its proper place.
The wreckage of the front door they could do nothing about.
Tim didn’t even want to think about the dead man at the foot of the stairs, curled over in a pool of black, treacle-like blood. Or the one outside, burned to death. He considered throwing a blanket over Christo, so they wouldn’t have to look at him, but decided it wouldn’t do much good.
Instead, he put on some coffee.
He’d not spoken with Amy for some time. But they seemed to be in accord at a certain mechanical level.
She fetched the cups and saucers, got milk from the fridge as the coffee percolated.
Tim filled their cups, and together they went back inside, away from the scene of so much destruction. From there, the dead were out of sight.
They sipped the steaming coffee. Then he put down his cup and drew Amy closer, cupping his hand around her head. She leaned into his chest, crying quietly. They sat still, Tim gently stroking her hair, trying to clear his mind of the awful images of carnage that swirled around in an endless loop.
If only his mind could be cleaned up as easily as the kitchen.
Amy raised her face from his chest, wiping tears away with her hands. ‘I feel … disgusting,’ she said.
In the ensuing silence, Tim tried to think of a response. There wasn’t one, so he shut up.
Amy sipped her coffee with a trembling hand. The cup clattered on the saucer when she replaced it. Then she knelt alongside Jimmy, placed her fingers against his throat. Signs of life were still present, but growing fainter with each passing minute.
‘We have to do something, soon,’ she said, looking at Tim, wanting him to produce a miracle.
He nodded. There was no doubt Jimmy would fade out of existence in a short time if he didn’t get medical help. But where the miracle was coming from, he had no idea. This night would never be over.
A new wave of urgency rose in Tim’s chest. He searched for his mobile phone and gave it another try. For a brief moment there was a signal, but it was weak, then it disappeared just as quickly. The nearest tower was simply too far away.
He stood at the front door, considering the BMW. It was their only hope of getting out of here in the foreseeable future. But where were the keys?
He went outside, into the rain, and searched the interior of the car thoroughly. Nothing. If Jimmy had taken the keys, he probably threw them somewhere into the bush, since they were not on his person.
Tim conducted a search, using the industrial flashlight that had belonged to one of the invaders, but didn’t hold out much hope. They could be anywhere, in any direction. He was really doing this to make himself feel that he was doing something, rather than just waiting for Jimmy to die.
After about ten minutes he gave it up. The undergrowth was so dense that even if he’d spotted the keys, he wouldn’t have been able to reach them.
By the time he got back inside he was soaking wet, again. Amy was there to greet him, but he gave her a helpless shrug, and she went back inside.
Tim got a towel from the bathroom and dried himself off as best he could. He changed his wet shirt for a dry one before rejoining Amy in the loungeroom.
Sitting next to Amy on the couch, he took her trembling hand in his, to steady it and also to comfort her.
‘We’ll see this through, Amy. Together,’ he told her.
‘Will we?’ She didn’t sound so sure.
‘We’ll get there. I’ll make sure of it.’
She didn’t respond for a while, and Tim wasn’t sure what he expected from her. But then she said: ‘I don’t know if that’s what you really want.’
‘Of course it’s what I really want.’
‘Why would you?’
‘Because I love you,’ he said simply. ‘Always have, always will.’
She withdrew her hand from his, covered her face as the tears came again. ‘It’s not as simple as that.’
‘I know it’s anything but simple. I realise that. But one thing is simple in my own mind: I’m not going to lose you. No matter what.’
‘You … You don’t understand how I feel,’ she said.
‘Of course I don’t. But, we can’t let these bastards beat us, Amy.’
‘I know, I know,’ she said. ‘But … I just can’t think about it at the moment.’
‘That’s all right. Just remember—I’m going to support you, every step of the way.’
Tim knew that, although the high drama might be over, its consequences would be with them for a long, long time. And not a lot of married couples made it intact through the ravages of such harrowing experiences. It wasn’t that some vital component of the relationship had been subtracted: rather, a destructive element had been added.
Even without pre-existing problems, they were up against the odds. If Amy’s heart wasn’t in it, if she couldn’t cope or do whatever was necessary to get their lives back in order, they would inevitably drift apart, and break up. It was the way of the world.
These depressing thoughts floated through his mind as he put a comforting arm around his wife, bringing her closer, and kissing her hair lightly, as he was fond of doing. Her hair smelled of salt, sweat, and terror.
He looked down at Jimmy, wondering once again what had brought him here.
Then he heard a noise. Someone was coming in the front door.
For a moment, Tim felt relief—help had finally arrived. But only for a moment.
A rain-spattered man entered the room. He was wearing a black, quilted jacket with a hood that he now threw back off his head.
What Tim saw was a good-looking, dark-haired man somewhere in his mid-thirties. Tim had never seen him before, but he instinctively knew who the intruder was.
As soon as the man removed the hood from his head, Tim felt Amy stiffen. She turned deathly white.
The man didn’t say anything as he took in the room and its occupants, including the body on the floor. Then he produced a black semiautomatic handgun from his jacket pocket and aimed it straight at Tim.
It was a Glock. Tim had one the same at home. Fat lot of good it was doing there, locked in a safe.
‘Get out of the way, Amy!’ the man shouted. She was positioned between Tim and the gunman, in the direct line of fire.
She didn’t move.
‘Amy, come on—move it!’ He waved the Glock, trying to get her to shift. But Amy seemed incapable of action.
Tim thought the man was going to fire anyway. He would have to be a crack pistol shot to hit Tim and not injure Amy as well.
Tim let go of Amy and stood up.
‘Do you have an argument with me?’ he said in a calm, controlled voice.
‘Not any more,’ the gunman said, grinning. He took careful aim.
Tim saw the gunman’s trigger finger start to squeeze. He said a quick prayer to a god he didn’t believe in; blinked once.
Then Amy sprang to her feet and shouted: ‘Lance, don’t!’ at the exact moment the gun went off.
Tim saw her stumble towards Lance Delaney, grab him by the shoulders, then slide down to the floor at his feet.
‘Amy, no! Why did you do that?’ Delaney knelt next to her, turned her over.
There was a scarlet patch of blood on the right side of her chest.
Tim rushed to help her, ignoring Delaney. Her eyelids fluttered; she moved her lips but didn’t speak. Cradling her head, Tim looked directly into Delaney’s eyes.
‘Bastard. You’ll get yours.’
‘If I do, you won’t know anything about it, mate.’
He pressed the weapon against Tim’s head. He was still cradling Amy, watching her for signs of life. He knew it was all over, and braced himself, visualising his brains spattered all over the room.
He lowered his face, shut his eyes.
The roar of the gun was much louder than the first time.
42
After a moment, Tim realised he had not been blown into the next world. He was still on his knees, with Amy in his arms, and he looked up.
Lance Delaney was not standing over him any more. He was staggering towards the window, the Glock still in his hand. When he reached the window he grabbed the curtain for support in one hand and fired a shot into the floor before collapsing, bringing the curtain down on top of himself.
A stranger was standing at the entrance of the lounge room. In his hands was a bolt-action rifle, which was trained on Delaney while he made his unsteady progress towards the window. Only when Delaney had hit the floor and lay still did the stranger lower the rifle.
What Tim saw was a gnarled figure, somewhere in his sixties, with a wild shock of red hair that hung untidy ropes. He had on a dirty old yellow oil slick, but was soaking wet nonetheless. After he’d lowered the weapon, he approached Tim and got down on one knee to assess the damage to Amy.
‘She might be lucky,’ he said after a cursory inspection. ‘Bullet seems to have gone clean through her.’
The stranger was so close, Tim could smell him—wet clothing, but something else, too: a sort of rancid smell, what you might expect in someone who doesn’t exactly lead a clean, hygienic life. It was the smell of a bushman.
Tim scoured his brain, and could only come up with one name.
‘It’s Malcolm, isn’t it,’ he said.
The man looked at him with clear grey eyes. ‘That’s right. We’re almost neighbours.’
Tim nodded.
Malcolm: the supposedly half-crazy Vietnam veteran who was rarely, if ever, seen, and at whose doorstep Tim often left his modest offerings of bread and water.
Malcolm inspected Delaney’s body, turning him over to ascertain where exactly he’d been hit. There was a massive wound just below the neck. The bullet had entered between his shoulder blades, and blown out through his throat.
‘Any more of him?’ Malcolm said.
‘No,’ Tim said. ‘Hope not, anyway.’
Malcolm nodded towards the prone form of Jimmy Raines on the floor. ‘Who’s he?’
‘Friend of mine.’
‘Is he still alive?’
‘Was ten minutes ago.’
Malcolm gave him a quick once-over, too. ‘Multiple gunshot wounds. Don’t like his chances.’
He then returned to Amy, got on one knee next to her, the butt of his rifle resting on the floor.
‘Your wife?’
‘Yes.’
He gave her a quick examination. ‘She should be OK. Soft tissue wound.’ He looked up at Tim.
Tim found himself drawn to Malcolm’s direct, unblinking gaze. This was no deranged recluse. He was an angel.
He was divine intervention.