Lang Downs

by Ariel Tachna

  MACKLIN HUNG up the phone with grim satisfaction. “Isaac Patterson was convicted of sexual assault of a minor ten years ago. He was sentenced to life in prison and died there a little over a year ago.”

  “Feel better?” Caine asked when Macklin finished.

  “Yeah, as stupid as that sounds when I wasn’t the one he victimized,” Macklin replied.

  “It’s not stupid,” Caine said. “He hurt your friend. It makes sense you’d be glad to see him face justice. You should tell Ian. It might help him find some closure as well.”

  “Come with me?” Macklin asked. “You’re better at this kind of thing than I am.”

  “What kind of thing?” Caine teased.

  “Emotions,” Macklin said with a grimace. “What is it Molly says about us? We treat emotions like they’re as deadly as a mulga?”

  “Something like that,” Caine agreed. “Fortunately for you, the partners of your stockmen seem to be more in touch with that side of themselves. Yes, I’ll go with you to talk to Ian.”

  They found Ian in the tack room, a pile of broken reins and stirrup leathers strewn around his feet. “Awfully hot day to be doing that, isn’t it?” Macklin said. “You could at least carry it outside, where there’s a breeze.

  “There are also people out there,” Ian muttered, “and right now people are very interested in why Thorne suddenly left. Telling them it’s none of their business doesn’t seem to be working.”

  “You know they ask because they’re concerned about you,” Caine said. “If they didn’t care about you, they’d chalk it up to him not being cut out for station life and move on.”

  “I know,” Ian said, “but I still have to explain, and then they want to know what happened, and that brings up things I want to talk about even less than where Thorne is now.”

  “About that…,” Macklin began.

  “Relax, Ian,” Caine said before Macklin could continue. Macklin saw the stricken look on Ian’s face and sighed, gesturing for Caine to take over. Even when he was delivering the closest thing to good news in this kind of a situation, he still made a mess of it.

  “You’re not….”

  “We’re not anything,” Caine promised when Ian didn’t finish the sentence “We called DoCS in Darwin. If it had come down to actually accusing Patterson of rape, you would have had to do it, but we wanted to find out if he was still working as a foster parent so we’d know if you needed to do it.”

  “Is he?” Ian asked, his voice so small and broken that Macklin flashed back to his own childhood and begging his mother for an explanation of his father’s abuse.

  “No,” Macklin said. “He was sentenced to life in prison ten years ago. He served nine years before dying in jail. Apparently some of the inmates took exception to his crimes.”

  “They killed him?” Ian asked.

  “No, but they weren’t kind to him. He died of his injuries a few days later,” Macklin said. “Perforated intestine, apparently.”

  He hated to admit the sadistic glee he felt at the thought of Ian’s abuser being forced to suffer the same kind of pain and humiliation he’d forced on Ian, but a primal part of him relished it. It didn’t decrease Ian’s suffering, but there was a certain poetic justice to it. He just wouldn’t mention that to Caine.

  Ian had no such qualms. “Good,” he muttered. “Serves the bastard right to know what it feels like to be held down and forced. I hope they ripped his insides to shreds. Thank you for finding that out for me. I don’t know if I would have had the courage to call on my own.”

  “You’re welcome,” Macklin said. “If you need anything else, just let us know.”

  “Actually,” Ian said slowly, “I was thinking I might start taking my day off instead of working through it. If you can spare me, of course.”

  “It’s your day off,” Caine said. “Of course we can spare you. Was there something particular you were planning on doing with it? Not that it matters. It’s your day, even if all you do with it is sleep for twenty-four hours.”

  “As nice as that sounds, that wasn’t what I had in mind,” Ian said with a lopsided smile. “Doc Peters gave me the name of someone in Cowra, someone to hopefully help me while Thorne is in Wagga Wagga getting help.”

  “Good,” Caine said. “You should do that. If you need extra days at first, let us know. You’ve worked more days off than you’ve taken off. We’ll work around your schedule.”

  “I have to meet her first,” Ian said, “but I’ll let you know.”

  “Just don’t forget to tell us,” Macklin said.

  “I won’t,” Ian promised. “Neil’s already kicked my arse once for thinking I had to do things alone. I don’t need it kicked again.”

  “Good,” Macklin said, “because I wouldn’t be as nice about it as he was.”

  Ian smiled. “I learned my lesson, boss. If I need something, I’ll be sure to tell you.”

  Twenty-Five

  THORNE HAD been at the Wagga Wagga Mental Health Services for three days when Walker came to visit.

  “How you holding up, Lachlan?” he asked when Thorne joined him in the visitors’ area of the center.

  “Doing okay,” Thorne said. “The doctors diagnosed me with PTSD, which shouldn’t really come as a surprise after everything we’ve seen and done. We’re trying some antianxiety meds to help with the over-the-top reactions. It’s too soon to tell if it’s helping, but the doctor seems to think it will. We’ve spent a lot of time talking, which is hard. I have to talk around a lot of stuff because it’s classified, but it’s not where I was or what the mission parameters were that are important.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Walker said. “How’s your boyfriend dealing with all of this?”

  “I haven’t talked to him since I called to let him know I made it here safely. I don’t have access to my cell phone or a computer, not that Ian has an e-mail account, but I’ve been writing to him. The doctor said that was good for me too. I’m hoping he’ll write back, but the station’s so remote that they take the mail in once a week unless it’s urgent. The nearest post office is in Boorowa.”

  “You’re really serious about him, aren’t you?” Walker asked.

  Thorne nodded. “I love him, and if this is what it takes for me to be healthy enough to spend the rest of my life with him, then this is what I’m going to do. If it takes a week or a month, it doesn’t matter.”

  “I hope he knows how lucky he is to get you,” Walker said.

  “I’m the lucky one.”

  Dear Ian,

  God, it’s strange to pick up a pen and actually write a letter by hand. I haven’t written anything with a pen in years. All my reports were typed, if I was the one writing them and not giving them orally.

  I made it to Wagga Wagga, but you knew that already. The center is nice, very modern, and the staff members are all friendly. I like Kevin, the therapist I’m working with. PTSD is the official diagnosis. I’ve started antianxiety medication that they say will help control the outbursts. I haven’t had any since I got here, but it’s only been a few days, and they said it’ll take longer than that for the meds to kick in.

  I miss you. I hated leaving you the way I did, but I couldn’t put it off. It wouldn’t have been any easier a day or even an hour later, and I might have talked myself out of it if I hadn’t gone right away.

  I hope you’re doing well. It’s strange not being with you after spending so much time together. I’ve started having nightmares again. Did you know I didn’t have a single one when we slept in the same bed? I told the therapist that. He said it meant I felt safe when I was with you. I like to think you felt safe with me too. I hope I haven’t ruined that with my outburst on Christmas night. I wasn’t angry at you. I was angry for you. I realize that’s not much comfort since you were the one who got to listen to me shout and hit things.

  We’re working on anger-management techniques. I don’t think of myself as being angry most of the time, but the therapist seems to think it w
ill help with the PTSD too. I’m willing to try anything if it gets me home to you faster.

  I’ll write again soon, but I want to get this out in today’s mail. I’m not sure when the next trip to town will be, and I want this one at least to be waiting for you.

  I love you.

  Thorne

  Ian finished reading the letter and set it carefully on the table in front of him. He’d called the therapist Dr. Peters had mentioned that afternoon. He’d been hoping for one in Boorowa, but it was either Cowra or Yass, and Cowra was a little closer, for a certain definition of “close.” Close enough he could leave early on his day off, drive to Cowra for an appointment, and drive home that night. It would be a long day, but he could do it without having to miss work.

  He could write Thorne and tell him he was doing his part to get well too, that he wanted things to work between them just as much as Thorne did, and he was doing the work to make it happen. He only wished the thought of it didn’t make him sick to his stomach.

  Dear Thorne,

  You aren’t the only one a little weirded out by the whole letter-writing thing. I thought I was done with this kind of thing when I took a job on a sheep station. No accounts to keep (for me, anyway), no more papers to write for classes, nothing. Just me and the great outdoors. And here I am writing a letter.

  I’m glad you like your therapist and that you feel like it’s helping. I had my first appointment with a therapist in Cowra. Not sure how I feel about talking to a woman about all of this, but it was either that or drive to Yass, which is even farther away than Cowra. I guess I’ll be spending my days off in the car for the foreseeable future. She said we might get to the point where we could meet via Skype or something (I guess Sam and Caine can help me figure out how to make that work if you’re not back by then) but for now, it’s a long drive, a short therapy appointment, and a long drive home.

  It seems you’re not the only one with PTSD. Mine’s maybe a little more specific than yours, related to one repeated event rather than to years in the military, but she says the symptoms are the same.

  I feel like a coward doing this in a letter rather than waiting until you’re home and we can talk face to face, but I’m not sure I can talk about it out loud. It’s hard enough to do it with the therapist. So here goes.

  I’m not sure I’ll ever be comfortable with anal sex. I want to make love with you, but I don’t know if that way of making love will ever be on the table. One of the exercises my therapist has me doing is visualizing different ways we could be together, different things we could do to each other, and seeing which ones I can actually imagine and which ones trigger flashbacks. I can wrap my head around almost everything but that. I can sit here and say that you would never hurt me the way he did, and I can even believe it, but there’s a final step between believing it and letting it happen that I haven’t been able to take. My therapist says not to force myself, that if I’m not comfortable with something, I should say so and explore other options instead, but I still feel like I’m cheating you out of something. To which she said if you made me feel that way, you weren’t the right man for me.

  I insisted that wasn’t you, that you’d take me even if all we ever did was kiss. I need you to understand that. No matter what’s screwed up in my head, it’s not something you’ve done or added to or made worse in any way. On the contrary. Because of you, I can lie in bed and imagine touching you. I can imagine hands on my body feeling good instead of being a cause for panic.

  I don’t know how much of this I told you, but my mum wasn’t around much when I was growing up. She was either working, when she could find a job, or out looking for a sugar daddy to pay the rent for a few weeks when she was between jobs. Even before I went into the foster system, I was pretty much on my own. The idea that someone, anyone, could touch me tenderly and with affection is one I’m still getting used to, and once you started, I couldn’t get enough as long as it didn’t turn overtly sexual. That’s the part I’m still struggling with. Kissing like we do, holding hands, your hands on my arms or in my hair… those are things nobody has ever done to me before. We’ll have to work on the part where it goes from being affectionate to being sexual. I want to get there. I will get there. I just don’t know exactly where there will be.

  Wow, this has got long. It’s getting late and I have to get up early to drive to Cowra. I’m going to drop this in the mail on the way to my therapy session, but I’ll have to wait for the supply run on Friday to see if I have a reply, and even then, it probably won’t be to this letter. Any reply is better than none. I miss you.

  I love you.

  Ian

  Thorne read Ian’s letter and then read it again. He took a few deep breaths and then read it a third time, but not because he didn’t remember it. He already had it imprinted on his brain. No, he read it again because until he could read it without wanting to hunt down everyone who had ever hurt Ian and slaughter them as slowly as possible, he couldn’t answer him, and he wanted to answer him. He wanted to write back and tell Ian none of it mattered, that Thorne would gladly accept the sweet kisses and caresses they’d already shared and count himself lucky, but he couldn’t do that until he could release some of the anger that had exploded inside him as he read Ian’s fears and confessions.

  He glanced at the journal his therapist had suggested he keep as a way to record his thoughts so he could examine them more clearly later, but there was too much aggression in him right now to sit and write it out. He needed to run. Fortunately the center included a small workout area with a treadmill he could use. He’d spend some time there and try writing afterward.

  He was still running an hour later when Kevin joined him in the gym. “You’ve been here a while. The clerk was getting worried.”

  “I’ve run longer than this,” Thorne said. “And harder too.”

  “I’m sure you have,” Kevin said, “but that was in the military when your life depended on it, or could, anyway. If you’re running like that here, it’s because something’s wrong.”

  “You told me exercise was a good way to deal with anger,” Thorne retorted.

  “I did and it is,” Kevin agreed, “but if an hour on the treadmill hasn’t taken care of it, then exercise isn’t the answer this time.” He hit the stop button. “Take a shower and meet me in my office.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Thorne muttered.

  “Oh, I believe that,” Kevin said, “but that’s all the more reason you need to. If you’re not there in half an hour, I’m coming looking and we’ll talk wherever I find you instead of in the privacy of my office. You’re making such progress, Thorne. Don’t let whatever happened today set you back.”

  Dear Ian,

  I have so much I want to say to you and I’m not even sure where to start, so if this letter ends up feeling kind of random, that’s why. First, I’m so glad you’ve decided to talk to someone about what happened to you. As hard as it is (and believe me, I know how hard it is), I think it will help you. I can already tell it’s helping me. I have a long way to go, but I can see progress, and that’s encouraging. I read your letter and wanted to go find everyone who’s ever hurt you and make them suffer for what they did. I was so angry I could barely see, but instead of hitting something like I did when you first told me about it, I went to the gym here and ran on the treadmill for an hour. I probably would have run longer, but Kevin made me stop and talk to him instead.

  I hurt for you when I think about what you went through, and I don’t even have the words to tell you how much I respect you for not giving up and for giving me a chance. I hope it goes without saying, but I’m going to say it anyway because I need you to know it, and maybe you need to hear it.

  I don’t expect anything from you except for you to do what you’re comfortable with. If that’s kissing and making out on the couch, that’s fine with me. If you get to the point where you want more than that someday, I won’t complain, but I won’t ever pressure you. I spent plenty
of years relieving my tension myself. If you never get to the point of wanting to share that, I’ll just keep doing it. I’ve gained so much by having you in my life that anything else is just icing on the cake. Nice, yes, but not necessary. The cake, the important part, that’s you, sharing our days and nights, if you still want to do that after the way I acted. Sharing our lives. Sex is nice, sure, but you’re what matters.

  I do like the idea of you lying in bed imagining us together, though. Shall I whisper all the things you do to me in your ear when I get home? Should I tell you how good you make me feel? Would that make you bolder or just scare you off?

  Fuck it all, I’m getting hard sitting here just thinking about it. This was not supposed to be a letter about sex. I’m supposed to be telling you I don’t need it, but Kevin keeps insisting I have to be honest with you, so there you have it. Thinking about you turns me on, especially thinking about kissing you or touching you. The difference between me and that rat bastard is that I’m not ruled by it. It doesn’t control me or make me want to control you. It makes me want to take care of you and convince you to trust me so maybe someday you’ll want to experiment with me. I’m only human. I’m going to get hard when you touch me, like I did the night you told me what happened to you, but that’s never going to control me. It’s never going to make me do something you don’t want, so you don’t have to be afraid of me.

  I know, I know, easy for me to say; I’m not the one who was hurt. Just know that I will never be the one to hurt you, at least not like that. I’m sure we’ll say and do plenty of things to annoy each other. That’s part of any relationship, but I don’t ever want you to be afraid of me again. I will leave Lang Downs before I will hurt you that way.

  It’s been two weeks since I left. I’m having trouble believing it’s been that long. I talked to Kevin today about how much longer I might need to stay. Given the distance, he’d prefer I stay until we’re sure the meds are the right ones, which means staying at least another two weeks. If I lived in town and could go in for periodic checkups, it wouldn’t be as much of an issue, but I’d rather do this right now and be able to come home than leave too soon and have to come back for another extended stay.