‘What? Olivia and Rainer?’ said Sidney.
‘Not to mention the police,’ said Kerry.
‘Only recent,’ said Corinna. ‘Elke’s left him; I bumped into her last week. She reckons they’re both just doing it to get back at Rick. Not that he gives a shit, the slimy turd. He’s too busy plotting his next money-making move — no doubt a Ponzi scheme targeting recently bereaved old people.’
‘And — the police?’ said Kerry. ‘Apologies for finding that the most interesting part of this conversation.’
‘Raided the vineyard,’ said Corinna. ‘It was being used as a drug-storage facility by the local gang, several members of which were caught with the goods.’
‘Another dodgy Rick scheme?’ said Sidney.
Corinna shrugged. ‘Soon find out. Police picked him up in Hampton an hour ago.’
Kerry suddenly became aware of little pitchers in close proximity, eyes wide, big ears flapping.
‘How about you take Reuben to get some of that meringue concoction?’ he said to Aidan and Rory. They didn’t need telling twice.
‘What about Madison?’ Sidney said urgently to Corinna. ‘She can’t stay with that evil woman. She can’t.’
Kerry put his arm around her shoulder, but she remained rigid as a fence post.
‘Madison only cares that she’s with her mother.’ Corinna clearly shared Sidney’s view on the desirability of that arrangement. ‘I can take steps, report Olivia for leaving a child unsupervised, but what will that serve? Madison is happier with her mother than without. That’s the truth of it.’
‘But she didn’t even buy her any presents,’ Sidney almost wailed.
‘She says she did, that they’re in a cupboard,’ said Corinna. ‘And, to be honest, even if she’s lying, Maddie will find some way to forgive her.’
‘I can’t bear it,’ said Sidney. ‘If Rick ends up in the slammer, she’ll have to get custody.’
‘Yes, well, there are a few steps that still need to be taken.’ Corinna held Sidney’s eye. ‘I’ll advocate for Madison, you can be sure of that.’
A cough behind them. A man Kerry didn’t know, but Corinna did, unless she greeted every stranger with a hug and a kiss on both cheeks.
‘This is Niko,’ she introduced him. ‘He runs a buddy scheme in Hampton. I’ve asked him to take Reuben home.’
She pointed him towards Reuben, who was in a huddle at the end of the serving table with Aidan and Rory, clutching an empty paper plate and licking cream off his arm.
As Niko headed in that direction, Kerry squeezed Sidney’s shoulder. This time she was more like a rag doll. All the fight had gone out of her.
It was bizarre — he should have been making soothing noises, but all he really wanted to do was yell out loud with joy. What a fantastic human being she was — a principled fighter, overflowing with care and love. How blessed was he?
Kerry raised his eyes to whatever deity was in session today, and offered up a quick prayer of thanks to him or her. Almost certainly her, which meant he would have to work harder than he ever had — no slacking or regressing — to be worthy.
‘Come on,’ he said, kissing his fighter’s temple. ‘Let’s go home and feed the boys fourths. I’ll organise it, all you need to do is relax with a nice glass of red. And then Aidan, Rory and I will do the washing up.’
His joy abounded anew when Sidney attempted a smile.
‘My God,’ she said. ‘I think that’s the most erotic thing a man’s ever said to me.’
Aidan and Rory ran up at a speed Kerry considered inadvisable considering how much food they’d consumed.
‘Ready, boys?’
‘Yes!’ They punched the air.
‘Know what you’re ready for?’ Kerry enquired. ‘Just checking.’
‘Christmas dinner!’
‘Good answer,’ said Kerry. ‘Let’s get home and get stuck in.’
Chapter 43
Mac
Mac knew Jacko was going to be late. He’d contacted her four hours ago, on one of the portable radios they’d been using to compensate for, in Jacko’s words, ‘the craphouse mobile coverage’ in the area. Said they’d found Barrett’s pack and it looked like the food the lads had said they’d all packed had been eaten.
‘Someone else?’ she suggested. ‘An animal?’
Someone else would have taken the whole pack; it was expensive and had good gear in it — brand-new sleeping bag and a bunch of stuff amateurs always feel compelled to buy at Kathmandu. And an animal wouldn’t have peeled the wrapper off a protein bar and shoved it in the front pocket. Probably.
‘Why’d he ditch the pack?’ Mac had asked. ‘If it had good gear in it.’
‘Weight?’ said Jacko. ‘If he’s injured, maybe he just couldn’t carry it anymore.’
‘Hell,’ said Mac. ‘Do you think he really could be alive?’ ‘We’ve got a much narrower search area now, so it won’t be long until we know.’
‘One way or the other’ hung in the air, as Mac ended the call.
Jacko was exhausted — all the men were, but they hadn’t been out in the bush for two weeks already. He came home and usually crashed right away, too tired to eat. Got up again the next day and headed out. Though she tried not to, Mac kept thinking of the story of folklore hero, John Henry, who with only a hammer beat a new drill machine to break through a mountain of rock, only to have his heart give out on the other side.
But what could she do? A young man they all knew was missing, and Jacko, Gene and Wyatt were determined to find him. Even if it meant going out on Christmas Day.
Jacko usually cooked the Christmas meal, but it had been Mac this year who’d butterflied the lamb, peeled the potatoes and trimmed the beans. She’d even made gravy, following Jacko’s special recipe, which had a dash of applesauce. He’d originally aimed to be back by six — it was Christmas, after all — but now, she wouldn’t expect him home before nine. Emma and Harry had both rung from overseas. They agreed their dad was a nutter, but he was a heroic nutter so more power to him. They both told Mac he’d be fine.
She checked her watch yet again. Eight-fifteen. Television would be dire — endlessly repeated movies or royal variety shows, most likely. She considered pouring a third glass of wine, rejected it as idiotic. She wanted to be awake when Jacko came home not sprawled on the couch, chin covered in drool.
An engine outside, rumbling. Thud as a car door closed. Footsteps pounded up the wooden steps onto the porch. The front door crashed open.
Gene, grim-faced, saying, ‘They’ve got him. He’s in the chopper, on his way to ICU.’
Mac burst into tears, sobbed into her hands.
‘I knew it,’ she said, not caring that she was wiping snot everywhere. ‘His bloody heart, I knew it.’
‘What are you on about?’ said Gene. ‘Whose heart?’
‘Hey …’
Mac found herself being enveloped in arms that were entirely familiar.
‘It’s all right,’ said her not-dead husband. ‘He’s going to be OK.’
‘I thought he meant you-ou.’ Mac’s sobs made her hiccup. But she was past the point of trying to avoid embarrassment.
‘Me?’ Jacko held her by the shoulders, peered down into her face. ‘You thought I was being carted off to hospital?’
‘Oops,’ said Gene, quietly.
Mac nodded.
‘Dear, oh dear.’ Jacko drew her back into a hug. ‘Why didn’t you bloody say you were that worried?’
Mac rested her head on his chest, listened to the beat of a big, strong heart, cursed herself for being a soft-headed moron.
‘I was going to see the Doc next week, anyway,’ said Jacko.
Mac tensed. ‘What for?’
‘Knee’s been playing up.’
‘I hate you,’ said Mac.
Jacko laughed. ‘Can we go sit down now?’ he said. ‘I am completely bloody rooted.’
Chapter 44
Sam
Going into Brownie’s hospi
tal room, Sam met Doc Love coming out. Had there been a setback? Why was he here?
‘Sam,’ the Doc nodded.
‘Everything OK?’
‘Remarkably so.’
Doc Love smiled and patted Sam’s arm, a gesture that said the older man understood his concern but he had no need to worry. Mind you, Doc Love always made you feel like that. He was the human equivalent of a cup of hot Milo.
Brownie was sitting up, propped on pillows. His face still showed yellow-purple traces of Sam’s fists, along with a bunch of new bruises and grazes, and one arm was in a cast. He’d broken it in the fall, and sustained multiple fractures to other bones, including his right foot and his ribs, which must still hurt like hell. Amazingly, he hadn’t snapped a leg bone, or smacked his head. Brownie’s recollections of the actual journey off the cliff were muzzy, being mainly, as he put it, a screaming blur. After stepping off the edge, he’d landed face-down but feet-first on the rocky slope like a failed base-jumper, and slid as if on a scree luge to the bush-line, where several conveniently placed trees slowed him down, while knocking what was left of the wind out of him and, for good measure, cracking a few more bones. Gravity, Brownie said, is a bitch.
The bush stopped him moving well before he landed in the river, and he’d lain on the ground for ages, trying to work out if he was dead or just wanted to be, to stop everything hurting. Then he crawled deeper into the bush, and kept on crawling, though he had no idea where he was headed.
‘Why didn’t you stay where you landed?’ Sam had asked.
‘Because my brain was addled,’ said Brownie. ‘Pain and panic are a really potent combination. I kept thinking I heard wolves coming after me, and my only thought was to get away, keep going, keep hiding. That’s why I dumped the pack; I freaked out that it was slowing me down. I got this close to stripping naked, too, shedding the last of the excess weight, only it hurt too much to take my clothes off. And after a while, it hurt too much to do anything. So I stopped moving and just — waited for the wolves …’
That’s how Jacko, Dad, Uncle Gene and two other hunters found him on Christmas Day, dehydrated, starving and incoherent with pain. They carried him for miles on a camp stretcher to the nearest clearing, where the rescue helicopter was waiting to pick him up and fly him to Hampton Hospital.
The peace provided by caring medical staff, a soft bed and strong painkillers had been temporary. Day after Boxing Day, according to Uncle Gene, the police had come, the big guns, drug squad, and interviewed him. Sam didn’t know what that meant, and part of him wanted to stay ignorant. But that wouldn’t cut it. Not anymore.
‘Doc Love came to update me on Dad.’
It was as if Brownie knew what Sam was working up to ask, and wanted to forestall him, put off the bad news as long as possible. Why not? Sam had nowhere else to be. Not yet.
‘He OK?’
‘He’ll stay in respite care for a couple more weeks. Then the Doc’s organised some home help. If I’d had to thank him, I might have cried, but fortunately’ — a trace of the old Brownie — ‘he refused to let me, said it was his job.’
‘You know he’s retiring next year?’ said Sam. ‘There’s a new bloke starting in February.’
‘All change, eh, Sam?’ Brownie managed half a smile. ‘You must be off soon.’
‘Next week. Driving my new wheels. Well, Ms Gillespie’s old shitbox Nissan.’
Brownie’s room had a tree outside it. An oak, Sam thought it was. Planted by people who believed they could control this new country, make it theirs. The need to feel connected — to family, roots, land — it was so strong, wasn’t it? Made people do all kinds of things, good and not so much.
‘What about you?’ he said. ‘What’s going to happen?’
Brownie winced, as if the question was painful. Or he was embarrassed — hard to tell.
‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘Powers that be are still deciding. There could be mitigating circumstances around my involvement — I acted under duress, I’ve given them helpful information, that kind of thing. But whether I go free or go to jail, I’m screwed. The people I worked for don’t compose inspirational quotes about forgiveness.’
‘What about Deano? Will they come after him, too?’
‘Always looking out for us, aren’t you, Sam?’ said Brownie, with a half-smile. ‘No one left behind.’
Sam’s immediate reaction to that wrong-headed praise was anger — with himself, but it managed to come out like he was angry at Brownie.
‘Don’t take the piss!’
‘I’m not.’ Brownie’s smile vanished. ‘Believe me, I’m not. You’ve been a good mate, Sam. One of the best.’
‘If I’d been a good mate, you would have trusted me enough to ask for my help.’
‘Is that what you think?’ Brownie said it softly. ‘Is that why you were so worked up on the mountain?’
‘Yeah.’ Sam couldn’t quite meet his eye. ‘Kind of. Yeah.’
‘Right …’ Brownie nodded.
‘Sammo,’ he said. ‘Has it ever occurred to you that I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you involved?’
OK, so that seemed reasonable, and Sam’s initial reaction was that he’d been stupid not to figure it out. But then he checked in with what the more grown-up part of his brain was telling him: that there’d been a time when Brownie wasn’t involved in anything.
‘Maybe,’ said Sam. ‘But you could have reached out before you got caught up with these arseholes. You know we would have helped — Mum and Dad love you. If you’d needed money, you only had to ask. Why didn’t you?’
‘Sammo, Sammo, Sammo …’ Brownie was shaking his head, slowly. ‘It sounds so obvious, doesn’t it? Got money trouble? Hit up friends and family! Everyone will help because they care.’
‘They do care!’ Sam felt like Brownie was denying it.
‘That’s right, they do,’ said Brownie. ‘They’ll give even when they can’t afford to. Even when they’re struggling to meet their own responsibilities. They’ll give until it hurts because they care. Did you really think I could ask that of the people I love?’
Sam took the point. And Brownie and Ed had obviously needed more than a few bucks to tide them over.
‘Besides, I have a stupid amount of pride,’ Brownie went on. ‘Mum’s big thing was always for me to stand on my own two feet, take responsibility. If I made a mess, literally or figuratively, I had to clean it up. She hated excuses.’
Sam heard Millie’s voice: ‘Don’t complain. Don’t explain …’
‘Yeah, but your mum wouldn’t have wanted you to get in trouble like this,’ he said.
The half-smile that wasn’t really a smile at all.
‘Stupid pride, Sam. I thought I could control things. I couldn’t. I’m—’ His voice began to crack, and he turned his head away. ‘I’m sorry …’
Sam didn’t know what to do. Brownie was crying? Maybe? It was hard to tell. He could hug him, but there was that pride thing. And the bloke thing, too, of course, couldn’t forget that. He searched for something, anything, else to look at, locked onto the flowers on the bedside table, which were a really sickly marshmallow pink.
‘It’ll be OK,’ he said, knowing it sounded like crap but wanting to believe it.
‘It won’t, Sam,’ said Brownie, voice firm again. ‘I fucked up too badly. But your life’s going to be great.’
Sam forced himself to meet his friend’s eye. It was the least he could do.
‘We’re all on your side,’ were the only comforting words he could come up with. ‘And we’ll help in any way we can.’
‘I know,’ said Brownie. ‘I’m grateful.’
It was time for Sam to go. They both knew it.
‘Can you do me one favour, Sam?’
‘Sure,’ Sam said hastily, hoping he wouldn’t regret it.
‘Can you tell Mrs Reid I’m sorry about the alarm? Given everything, she probably thinks I did it on purpose. I didn’t. Unlike the rest of my actions, that
was an unintentional fuck-up. Just a common-or-garden regular mistake.’
‘I’ll tell her,’ said Sam. ‘But I think she probably knows.’
Brownie nodded. He held out the hand not in the cast. His left, which made shaking it kind of awkward.
‘See ya,’ said Sam.
‘Of course,’ said Brownie, with a solemn nod.
As Sam steered his new wheels out of the hospital car park, he realised they’d forgotten to wish each other Happy New Year. That was his next stop — the Boat Shed, where all his family and friends were getting ready for a New Year’s Eve shindig, which they’d decided would double as his going-away party.
Lest auld acquaintance be forgot — was that the last he’d see of his friend?
No, bugger that, he told himself. If you want something bad enough, then you’ll find ways to make it happen. And even if you’re dreaming, and it’s impossible, isn’t it better that you at least gave it a go?
Epilogue
the dog
The dog loved parties. People spilled food on the floor, or left their paper plates too near the table edge, where they could be easily dislodged with a nudge of the nose. Many people were happy to feed the dog directly, particularly children, and also adults who’d had a few drinks. ‘Aw, look at those big puppy eyes,’ they’d say and toss it some steak fat or a roast potato.
It disliked raisins, but pretty much anything else qualified as food. It had even managed to hoover up the unclaimed sweets from the lolly scramble held earlier that day. The dog had observed that the children unwrapped their Fruit Bursts and Minties, but having consumed, on past occasions, milk cartons, birthday candles and plastic hose fittings, the dog was hardly going to be bothered by small squares of waxed paper.
There were no children to give it food at this party. They were all at the Master and Mistress’s home, being looked after by two of Devon’s cousins, who were old enough to babysit but too young to go out drinking. Devon had decided to spend his New Year’s Eve with the Master and his friends. ‘At my place, New Year’s goes on for days,’ he said. ‘I won’t miss out.’
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