Turn Left at Bindi Creek

by Lynne Wilding

  ‘Hasn’t Frank told you? We’ve made some headway. That petition you organised impressed them, especially some of the comments that went with it. But even though Leon Hetherington is on the people’s side, his hands are tied. The big boys at the bank’s head office have decided to close the branch and, like it or not, he has to implement it.’

  ‘What about the suggestions you made, about an ATM or the supermarket taking over as some kind of sub-branch? That could work, you know. They have a good safe, they’re prepared to build a special counter and they’ll employ one of the staff from the bank to run it, since it will bring people into the store. And, really, they’re the only business in town with the cash flow to do it.’

  ‘Frank and I have drafted a proposal. Hetherington’s vetted and okayed it and he’ll take it to head office personally.’ Brooke sounded philosophical as she added, ‘That’s the best we can do.’

  They stopped an hour later for a late lunch of tuna salad sandwiches and coffee. The bulk of the work was now done and Jean began to tidy up the paperwork. As she was bundling receipts into a large envelope, she heard a noise at the door of the waiting room and glanced up in time to see it thrust wide open. She looked towards the doorway but could seen no-one.

  The next moment a figure appeared. A baseball cap was scrunched low on his head, partly obscuring his face, but Jean immediately recognised the checked zip-up jacket Craig Marcioni was fond of wearing. He stood there, legs wide apart in an aggressive stance, his hands behind his back.

  ‘Oh, Craig, you’re too late for surgery. Dr d’Winters isn’t here,’ Jean told him.

  Ignoring Jean’s words, Craig strode into the room and came up to where they sat.

  Brooke looked up from her paperwork. Her face must have registered surprise at what she saw, because he glared at her. Craig looked awful: unshaven, strands of hair creeping out untidily from under his baseball cap. His mouth was tight and a muscle flexed in his jaw. He was not the usual, mild-mannered Craig they were used to; this Craig was almost a stranger. But what worried her most about him was his eyes. Being so dark they were difficult to read, but she saw a strange desperation in them. His gaze darted about the surgery waiting room, skittering from one object to another, as if he were looking for something.

  ‘Don’t want the bloody doctor, Ms prim ’n’ proper King,’ he said slurring the words as he spoke. ‘Need something. An’ I’m not leavin’ till I get it.’ Then he produced what he had behind his back: a syringe filled with dark red liquid—blood.

  Jean moved back and Brooke jerked up straight in her chair.

  ‘Yeah, ladies.’ He grinned slyly at them. ‘AIDS-contaminated blood. This hypo cost me thirty bucks at…’ He stopped. ‘Oh, shit. You don’t need to know that.’ He’d been slouching, but suddenly he jerked upright and his free hand clutched his stomach as if he were in pain. ‘I want heroin, morphine, amphetamines. All you’ve got or,’ to emphasise his demands he waved the hand holding the needle about in a threatening manner, ‘I’m goin’ to stick you both.’

  ‘Craig, you’re talking crazy,’ Jean said in her sternest, most official voice. ‘Put that needle down and stop acting like a fool. At once now!’

  In a lightning action Craig leant forward. With his free hand he swiped at her face and connected with her cheek. The blow almost knocked Jean off the chair. Her glasses crashed to the ground.

  ‘Shut up,’ he shouted at Jean. ‘One more word and I’ll stick you good. Just bloody shut up.’

  He stared at Brooke with wild eyes, and his body began to twitch as his need for a hit became more intense.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Brooke blinked and stared back at him. Instead of being numb with shock she was remembering…another time…

  She had been threatened by a syringe-wielding druggie before, and now she knew that that’s what Craig Marcioni was. Many years ago, in the Royal Hobart Hospital, a similarly wild-eyed young man had threatened her in a detoxification ward with a hypodermic containing his own contaminated blood. In her mind’s eye she could still see the trickle of dark fluid that ran down his arm from where he had filled the syringe. Back then—it had happened more than ten years ago—she had panicked, screamed and buckled at the knees with fear…Luckily for her, two wardsmen had come to her rescue and tackled then subdued the patient. They had defused the threat, but over the next few months it had not been pleasant to watch the same druggie deteriorate and finally die.

  Today she was a different person to the woman who had panicked. Stronger, more mature and confident of her abilities and, under the suddenly stressful circumstances, strangely calm. She took a deep breath and spoke evenly, believing that to show fear would put Craig on a greater high, something she didn’t want to do.

  ‘What makes you think we have drugs on the premises, Craig? Didn’t you read the sign on the waiting room door? The surgery doesn’t keep supplies of dangerous or addictive drugs.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ His expression was belligerent as he stared at Brooke. ‘That’s bullshit and you know it. Don’t try to bullshit me, Mrs d’Winters. I’ve done other doctors’ surgeries, I know what doctors keep.’

  ‘So what are you on, Craig? Heroin? Speed? Uppers, downers? Or a whole cocktail: Ecstasy, Valium, Temazapan?’

  ‘Yeah, all of it. Any shit I can get. And…’ His eyelids drooped and he slurred at her, ‘I want your script pads and any cash too.’

  Brooke knew why he wanted the script pads. He could hock them for more drugs and sell them to other addicts, who could forge prescriptions for drugs. ‘What about your own supplier? Why do you need Jason’s?’ Brooke asked.

  ‘The pigs picked up my supplier on Friday,’ he said with surprising honesty. ‘Haven’t scored since early last evening.’ He wiped the sweat off his forehead and from his upper lip. ‘I need a fix, quick.’

  ‘You broke into the nursing home,’ Brooke surmised—successfully, it seemed, by his guilty flush. ‘Then you tried to get into Gersbach’s pharmacy too, didn’t you?’

  His gaze narrowed, dark eyes shining black slits of anger. ‘You’re a smart chick, Mrs d’Winters, I always knew that. But damn it, I’m not here to chat. Get into the surgery.’ He swung around and addressed Jean.

  ‘If you get out of that chair to reach for the phone, I’ll jab her.’ He grinned nastily at the older woman. ‘That’s a promise. Then I’ll do you.’

  Still rubbing her cheek, a subdued Jean nodded. She looked at Brooke. ‘Give the little shit whatever he wants. The sooner he overdoses, the better off the world will be.’

  ‘Bitch.’ Craig raised his arm threateningly again and, when she stiffened in expectation of another blow, his grin widened and he slowly lowered his arm.

  As Brooke rose from the chair and walked towards the surgery door she was amazed by her own calmness, but she was also recalling things she had noticed about Craig but until now hadn’t put together. The sniffing, as if he had a cold. Wearing long-sleeved shirts in the heat of summer. His shifty gaze, the jerky body movements. Crying uncontrollably at his grandmother’s funeral. Yes, there had been a pattern and, if she guessed right, it was possible that he was responsible, or at least partly responsible, for the sheep rustling that was going on. He needed considerable amounts of money to pay for his habit.

  As she moved into Jason’s surgery she prayed that Jean would be sensible and not try to do something heroic. It was obvious that Craig’s nerves were stretched to the limit, the craving for relief driving him crazy. It wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge.

  ‘Tried methadone, Craig? It will give you the relief you need.’

  ‘Jesus, woman, haven’t you been listening? I want the real shit,’ he yelled, waving the syringe wildly at her. ‘Where does the Doc keep it?’

  ‘In the glass cupboard. It’s locked.’

  ‘Get the bloody key, then. Quick.’ Continuing to sweat, narrow-eyed he watched her move to the desk, open a drawer and take out a set of keys.

  She tried an
other tack. ‘I understand what you’re going through, you know. Not the craving for dope, but the sense of loss over your nonna. I could tell how much you loved Mrs Gross, Craig. The drugs help, don’t they? Help you to forget the pain.’

  He blinked and stared at her as if she had suddenly grown another head. ‘Shit, are you a shrink or something?’ he said, suddenly becoming more like the Craig she used to know.

  ‘No.’ She forced a lighthearted tone into her voice. ‘I’m almost a naturopath—will be soon anyway. It’s just that I know how much it hurts to lose someone you love, because it happened to me.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He sniffed and rubbed at his eyes. ‘Nonna was the only one who understood me. My shitty father doesn’t and Mum, she’s a weak bitch. Does everything Dad says.’

  Keep him talking. Get his mind onto something other than his need.

  ‘I lost my mother and brother in a car accident, several years ago now. I know how you’re hurting.’ She unlocked the drugs cupboard, took out several vials and turned back to him. ‘Pethidine?’

  His grumpy expression changed. ‘Yeah, oh, yeah!’ But the next instant a craftiness replaced his look of anticipation. ‘Put everything in a bag. Whatever you got.’

  ‘Okay, after you’ve had your fix. Will I prepare the syringe for you?’ she offered, and hoped that he didn’t hear her sigh of relief when he nodded. His hands were beginning to shake as the effect of withdrawal worsened. Inside him, she thought, his nerve endings must be stretched to the limit. Rivulets of sweat now ran down the side of his face and he sniffed constantly. She turned to Jason’s medical supplies, found a disposable syringe, broke the neck of the vial and drew back the plunger until it was full.

  Brooke was so close to him and the menacing syringe that her heart rate jumped several notches. He could jab her with the syringe any time he wanted, but she was praying that his need for a hit was stronger than his desire to hurt her.

  He sat in Jason’s chair and pulled off one shoe. ‘The veins in my arms are crap. Do it here,’ and he pointed to a prominent vein in his foot.

  She went down on one knee, eased the needle in and steadily pushed the plunger down until the syringe was empty. ‘You’d better sit there for a minute or two.’

  Brooke knew it wouldn’t take him long to realise he hadn’t got what he wanted, but by then the Valium she had switched for the pethidine would begin to flow through his veins. She had given him an enormous dose, knowing that it would render him sluggish and uncoordinated, then unconscious. Unable to judge how fast the drug would work on him, she stood up and moved as far away as she could, almost to the surgery door.

  Keep his mind off his reaction. ‘I’ve seen many lives ruined by drugs, Craig,’ she said conversationally. ‘Yours doesn’t have to be. There are people who can help you, psychologists as well as rehabilitation units at various hospitals. Your parents will support you, I’m sure…’

  ‘Bloody hell! What have you done to me?’ He stared at her for a moment or two, then understanding came: he wasn’t getting the hit he’d craved. ‘You bitch, you rotten sly bitch.’ He shook his head like a dazed bull and, with one arm clinging to the chair for support, tried to get up. His frown deepened as he realised how difficult it was to move. ‘What did you give me, bitch?’ After a couple of attempts he managed to get out of the chair and lurch towards her, the threatening syringe aimed at her chest. ‘You’re goin’ to pay.’ He shook his head again, trying to clear the growing drowsiness. ‘Thought I could trust you. Can’t. Shit,’ his slurring became plaintive, ‘can’t trust anyone.’

  His eyelids drooped and closed, his body swayed. He was almost out on his feet when he slowly slid to his knees. He managed to lift his head and stare up at her, as he tried to blink away the numbing effect of the Valium. He tried to lift his free hand to rub his eyes, but even that became too much of an effort and it fell back to his side. After maybe thirty seconds he crumpled to the carpet and lay still.

  Brooke kicked the syringe away from him and, with a huge sigh of relief, leant back against the doorjamb. Reaction was setting in, now that she had triumphed. Her body had begun to shake and her heart was thumping so alarmingly in her chest she thought it would burst.

  By this time, Jean, having heard the scene unfold, had left her seat and come to stand outside the doorway. Her features held an amazed look. ‘What did you give him?’

  ‘Valium. Enough to knock out a horse, I think.’ As Brooke spoke, Craig moaned, just once, and went silent again. ‘Call Carcoar police. He should remain non compus until they get here.’

  ‘You handled that…’ Jean strove for an appropriate word, ‘…coolly,’ she finally settled on. Jean made the call to the station. When she spoke to Brooke again her tone had an edge of admiration. ‘Weren’t you frightened?’ At one point in the fracas she had been trying to work up the courage to risk a self-defence move on the ratbag. Royce had tried teaching her some karate moves years ago, and she still practised them, but it seemed that when she needed one, she’d lost confidence.

  ‘Terrified,’ Brooke admitted with a shaky grin as she rubbed her damp palms down the side of her skirt. ‘But I’d be damned if I was going to let a “little shit”’—she flicked a glance at Jean, ‘your words, not mine—get the better of me.’

  By the time Craig Marcioni regained consciousness he had been handcuffed. He became as mad as hell when he saw Constable Pete Roth and Vince Gersbach standing guard over him.

  Pete hoisted the dazed Craig to his feet. ‘A nice little drive to Carcoar will clear your head, my lad.’

  ‘He’s going to be pretty miserable—from withdrawal, once the Valium wears off.’ Brooke offered as she studied the teenager. He looked totally disorientated, and scared. ‘I’ll have Jason call the doctor in Carcoar and get him to check Craig over.’

  ‘He’ll do time for this, won’t he?’ Jean asked the constable. Her cheek still smarted from where he’d hit her. What’s more, he had threatened their lives. The little shit—she would mentally refer to him that way from now on—deserved a few years behind bars for this stunt. What if any or all of the d’Winters children had been home and witnessed his behaviour? They could have been badly traumatised. Yes, the little shit deserved everything that was coming his way, that was for sure.

  ‘That’s up to the judge,’ Pete Roth answered in a noncommittal manner.

  ‘What he needs more than gaol time is a rehabilitation program to get him off drugs once and for all,’ Brooke said. ‘Putting him in gaol with hardened criminals won’t save him, it’ll probably condemn him for the rest of his life to a life of crime and drug use.’

  Jean stared at her friend, surprised and more than a little awed by her compassion. ‘He threatened to infect us with AIDS,’ she reminded Brooke. ‘That’s tantamount to attempted murder in my book.’

  ‘Maybe. But he wouldn’t have done so if he wasn’t into drugs. You know that once an addict’s hooked they’ll do whatever it takes to score their next hit. That’s all they live for.’ She looked at Pete. ‘He will have an opportunity for counselling, won’t he? I’m sure his parents and Jason would want that.’

  Pete nodded. ‘I’ll contact his folks as soon as the paperwork’s done at the station.’ He urged Craig forward, towards the waiting room door, but turned back to them before he left. ‘I’ll need you to come to the station to make statements. Would tomorrow be okay?’

  ‘Of course,’ Brooke answered for both of them. After the men had left, Brooke said to Jean, ‘I think we need something to settle us, namely a drink.’

  ‘Something stronger than tea?’ Jean’s grin was hopeful as she followed Brooke down the hall and into the living room where Jason kept a small, well-stocked bar.

  ‘You bet. A brandy.’ Brooke winked, knowing Jean’s preference for the occasional drop. ‘Maybe more than one. I’m sure that’s what the doctor would order if he were here,’ she added, smiling. ‘Jason isn’t going to believe what happened when I tell him.’ Only a few days ago t
hey had talked about the town and she knew he considered Bindi Creek a pleasant, sleepy little backwater, as did she. Well, not any more. Unfortunately for them all, after today’s events the town had caught up with the rest of the world.

  An hour later, as a more mellow Jean strolled home to her cottage, she couldn’t help but recap not only the scene with Craig, but Brooke’s forebearance and her coolness under pressure. As she opened the front gate and smiled vaguely at her blooming rose garden she was aware of something else niggling at the corners of her consciousness too. Little things that separately meant nothing, but, when put together, like random pieces of a puzzle, caused a different picture of Brooke to take shape. But more pieces of the puzzle were needed before it made sense.

  Over the years she had occasionally marvelled at Brooke’s level of medical know-how. She seemed much more knowledgeable than a partly-trained nurse should be, and she had overheard her and Jason actually discuss surgical procedures and diagnostics. Jason seemed to respect Brooke’s expertise as an equal. And there had been the time when Jason was out on a house call and Reverend Dupayne’s eldest girl had suffered a severe asthma attack. Brooke had administered relief-giving drugs and known precisely what to do. As well, she had known what to do after Adam got caught in the creek. There had been several other instances too that made her query Brooke’s level of expertise. But she hadn’t seriously questioned anything before.

  Today, strangely, when she studied Brooke’s ease in handling Craig, her ability had gone beyond that of an ordinary housewife and hinted at…what? Her frown deepened. She shook her head again as she reached the front door, which she never bothered to lock but would from now on. She didn’t know what to make of it all. However, her curiosity was roused and from now on she would keep a mental diary of her best friend’s medical expertise, just to see where it led.

  Jean King had a level of curiosity beyond most, and she was good at sniffing out secrets—always had been. In fact, she remembered that Royce had once said she’d have made a great detective. Perhaps. If she’d been smart, she’d have used her skill years ago to find him and tell him he had a son. Too late now, she grumbled to herself.