He rolled onto his side and hitched the scratchy blanket closer. His stomach convulsed. He gasped and turned onto his back again.
Some days, his stomach merely churned and burned, protesting even the birdlike amounts he ate. On others, he cramped and vomited bloody bile. He suspected a stomach ulcer but couldn’t see a doctor and didn’t care, because he deserved it.
I deserve much worse.
A groan. He tensed and listened. Before long came another. He crept across the room and crouched next to his mate. He palmed his brow. Poor bugger was burning up. The man poured water onto a rag and held it to the clammy forehead.
The kid gripped his wrist. Eyes open wide.
‘It’s okay, bud.’
‘Hungry,’ his mate whispered.
‘Only got cold baked beans. Okay?’
He forked beans into the younger one’s mouth. His buddy ate five forkfuls before falling back onto the bag that acted as his pillow. He shuddered and fell asleep.
The man watched him for a while in the moonlight.
We’ll have to move on from here.
The ones they’d hooked up with at this squat were hardened crims and risk-takers for the sake of it. They’d bring trouble on him and the kid sooner or later. They’d split tomorrow, he decided. Find a place quieter and warmer. The broken window and half-rotted timber floorboards in this room were making his mate worse, although his buddy enjoyed a few good days among the bad ones.
He propped against the dank plaster wall and contemplated his half-dead existence. Here but not where he wanted to be. Not dead but not living either. He didn’t have any tears left. Sometimes he tried to cry, wanted to cry, but couldn’t squeeze anything out. Happiness…gone. The only things that mattered now: not getting caught and looking after his mate.
He thought about that moment, that day constantly, the relative flicker in time in which he decided to take someone’s life. Not just anybody. No, somebody he should have nurtured and protected against bastards like him.
He added his blanket atop his buddy’s and cocooned them around the slim form. The kid stirred.
‘My head hurts.’
The man went to his backpack again and retrieved a packet of paracetamol. He tossed it aside with a sheet of empty blisters. A further dig in his bag uncovered a stray tablet. He picked off the bits of fluff and fed it to his mate.
‘It’s all I’ve got. We’ll have to get some more stuff tomorrow, bud. And we’ll find us a new place to stay, too. We’ve got to get away from those rowdy buggers.’
His buddy nodded. He gave a weak smile and gripped his hand. ‘You’ll see. I’ll be sweet tomorrow.’ He drifted into an uneasy slumber.
The man sipped water and his guts blazed.
No point trying to sleep.
He hugged his stomach and replayed what he’d done that day – as he would every day for the rest of his miserable life.
His reasons didn’t justify his actions.
What made me this monster, the scum of the earth?
He couldn’t blame a dysfunctional childhood, lack of education, being unloved or unsuccessful.
All me. All my fault.
Chapter 2
Georgie rubbed her arms, trying to get warm.
Coming back’s a bitch.
She lowered her gaze. It’d started drizzling a short while ago. Soft, persistent droplets blurred the inscription. She knelt and trailed her fingertips over the grooves of the epitaph engraved into marble. Her heart twisted with each word. She teared up.
She lost track of time. She might’ve been there ten minutes or thirty. When she rose, tangled wet hair draped her collarbone, and her joints were stiff.
Her whispered, ‘I gave my evidence at the committal hearing,’ was muffled by the breeze. Louder, she said, ‘Why couldn’t that have been enough?’
A cockatoo screeched as if jeering her.
‘Did I really have to come back?’
Abergeldie, Daylesford, and these graves…she’d revisited them all, but it left her feeling caught in no-man’s land, not quite belonging anywhere, not sure how to move forward.
She ran her eyes over the modern headstones at her feet, across the old part of the Daylesford Cemetery, then the adjoining farms.
Why the hell am I back here? Because my counsellor suggested these tasks, allegedly as sum parts of ‘closure’. Empty and over-exercised, that word.
And, it’s not working so far.
Georgie turned slowly, towards cypress pines that swayed as the wind sighed through their waterlogged branches. She faced the direction of the Wombat Arms Hotel, but couldn’t see it from here. In the backdrop, Wombat Hill looked bleak in the misty rain.
At first, it had struck her as unchanged, except that properties were lush and green, following the glut of rain through winter to now, summer.
Aside from that, what’s different?
Me. Maybe eight months is too soon to revisit a war zone.
She shuffled to her car. The black duco of the 1984 Alfa Spider blended into the shadows of the pine hedge. She felt heavy in her boots, weighed down by the past.
She slipped into the car telling herself: one last visit with my old friend, Pam, and then I’m done with Daylesford. But pulling the door closed brought it back. That less than two hours ago, she’d drawn aside coloured plastic door strips, ready to step into a café, and brushed someone’s hand as they came from inside.
‘Georgie? What are you doing here?’
Same bass voice. Possibly the same well-worn Levis and plain black T-shirt she’d first seen him wearing at the Wombat Arms earlier this year.
Her heart fluttered, and pinned by the intensity of his gaze, she’d frozen. A blush crept over his skin and she’d wondered how he felt about seeing her.
She and John Franklin had a lot of history from back in autumn, when she was last in Daylesford to check on the welfare of her neighbour’s friend. Much of that history was unhappy and she’d worked hard over recent months to forget him, but her body had betrayed her the instant he said her name. They were close enough that she could smell his sweet yet masculine aftershave. Her palms were clammy and pulse thudded in her ears and she’d thought bloody hell, he looks good.
Georgie’s gut then cramped with conflicted emotions. Guilt was topmost, as she’d blocked the image of her boyfriend AJ’s face.
Franklin had been at the hearing in Melbourne too, but she’d avoided him. That hadn’t stopped his stare boring into her whenever they passed in the Magistrates’ Court lobby or hallways, or her covert glances. But at the café, she couldn’t dodge him. Truthfully, she didn’t want to.
‘Can I get you a coffee?’ Franklin had jiggled his takeaway beaker. ‘Have a catch up?’ After a glance at the moody sky, he’d pointed to an outside table. ‘The rain should hold off.’
She’d struggled to reply, but took a seat. They’d talked, drank coffees, and she’d smoked, before killing the conversation.
His eyes stayed in the forefront of her mind as she’d walked away. They hadn’t masked either what he wanted or his hurt. Her apology burned in her ears.
‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t make it better, for him or me.
Chapter 3
‘Are you okay, love?’
Georgie gasped and jumped. Hot liquid rushed over her hand, and she righted her mug, wiped her hand on her jeans. She shrugged free of her daydream to find a woman leaning towards her. She wore a crisp white apron over street clothes and had an airforce style envelope cap perched on her mop of brown hair. Georgie recalled she’d been served by her earlier, from behind the bakery counter.
‘You look like shit.’ The woman smiled, revealing buck-teeth which strangely suited her, and her eyes crinkled, taking the edge off her words.
Georgie returned the smile, hoping the bakery assistant would leave it at that, relieved when she flapped her dishcloth and re-entered the building.
Alone again with her coffee, her thoughts reverted to Bullock, a tiny hamlet at the base of Mount St
arke in Victoria’s north central district. She had no recollection of travelling here, of passing through places like the rambling outer suburb of Lilydale and the vineyards and farms in the Yarra Valley or navigating the constant S-curves of the Black Spur ascending the Great Dividing Range. And she’d taken the turnoff to this town in the same automatic state.
Her mind had been full of other things.
This assignment came through last night and as her first rural-based story for the magazine, it raked up events she still hadn’t put behind her, as yesterday proved. Even in bed, Georgie couldn’t switch off the memories replayed in an erratic home movie and she’d moved to the sofa, so not to disturb AJ. Her cat, Phoebe, had followed her and nested purring against her chest. It was sweet but didn’t lull her to sleep.
Georgie sipped her coffee. It had cooled but the strong caffeine grounded her. She scanned the street, her editor’s instructions echoing in her mind. A very special story – no pressure or anything.
She tried to see the town of Bullock objectively. Hard because she’d been here before. Gut feel of this place? She picked up her pen, rested the nib on her notepad. First impressions?
As if in answer, clouds that had threatened since her arrival burst. Water pummelled the perspex roof above her and ricocheted off bitumen that steamed with the almost tropical downpour.
Georgie considered the structures nearby. Signs of rebuilding were significantly less than she’d expected given it was two years on. Portables here and there accommodated struggling businesses; one with the original picket fence marking the front boundary, another sitting beside the large, charcoaled stump of a gumtree.
Water dripped from the verandah roof onto Georgie’s notepad.
Where are the animals and birds?
She couldn’t remember seeing any since she’d pulled into town. Equally hauntingly, several of the original landmark signposts remained. Warped, scorched, and missing a couple of planks, they pointed to ghosts of guest houses, an antique centre, plant nursery and the ravaged mountain. Those signs were so evocative that Georgie expected smoke to fill her nostrils.
But that wasn’t the story she came to get.
‘What day is it, love?’
Georgie turned towards the voice, skimming over a woman in a wheelchair, to take in an old man wearing black Adidas tracksuit pants with red stripes, a lemon polo shirt and runners, which clashed with his snowy hair and wrinkled face, yet fit with his lean and spry build.
‘He’s always forgetting,’ a boy clad in baker’s whites commented with a laugh. He lugged a sack from the van out front and jumped rivulets of water running too fast for the drains.
The old man chuckled. ‘It’s true.’ He tapped his skull. ‘Sharp as a tack, except I can’t remember short-term things. Couldn’t tell you what I watched on television last night or what day of the week it is, to save my life. But you could fill a set of encyclopaedias with what I recall of Australian and British history.’
That must suck. Georgie said aloud, ‘It’s Thursday.’
‘Much obliged,’ the old man replied. He offered his right hand and shook Georgie’s, smiling warmly. ‘Norman Poole and this is my child bride, Dawn.’
His wife had to be eighty or thereabouts too, but in contrast to Norman’s contemporary attire wore a drab, old-fashioned floral housecoat that pulled over a plump body and exposed dimply freckled arms. Child bride, good to see he hadn’t lost his sense of humour with his short-term memory.
The same couldn’t be said for Dawn Poole. She sat rigid in her wheelchair, without acknowledging her husband’s introduction or Georgie’s reply and outstretched hand.
Georgie dropped her hand, unsure if the slight was personal.
Norman patted his wife’s arm. ‘C’mon, MG. Let’s get you home.’ With a nodded farewell, he raised the golf umbrella attached to her wheelchair, then ambled away.
Alone again, Georgie wondered where the nickname MG came from. As she lifted her coffee mug, a movement caught her eye. A lone sparrow flitted from paver to paver near her table.
‘There you go, sweetie.’ She dropped crumbs from her plate near the little bird. ‘Glad to see you’re not all gone.’ She smiled, spirits boosted.
But soon she forgot the odd, old couple and the sparrow, lost in dark thoughts filled with bushfires and her assignment.
* * *
I hope you enjoyed the opening of the second Harvey and Franklin novel, Dead Again, and would like to continue reading.
Into the Fog, the third instalment in the series, is out soon.
Acknowledgments
Any mistakes are my own. But I’d like to give thanks to the police members who assist with my procedural questions: David Spencer of the Victoria Police Media and Corporate Communications Department, and Tessa Jenkins and Joanne Morrison. Special thanks are extended to my editor Ruth Kennedy for her professionalism and care, along with Marianne Vincent for her proofreading.
My appreciation also goes to Lana Pecherczyk of Author Zoo for designing a fabulous book cover; to Ebony McKenna for formatting; to friends Judy Elliot, Raylea O’Loughlin and Sharon Gurry for their responses to early drafts of some of the stories in this collection; and to author friends Michelle Somers and Rowena Holloway for their generous support.
There are many others who inspire, encourage and support me, but none more than you, my readers. Thank you. You keep me writing and sharing, and I’d love you to join me on Facebook or follow my website.
And last, but never least, I acknowledge my best friend and husband, Glenn, for always believing in me.
Praise for Sandi Wallace
TELL ME WHY
Harvey and Franklin Book One
WINNER OF 2015 DAVITT AWARD READERS’ CHOICE
Picturesque Daylesford has a darker side.
Melbourne writer Georgie Harvey heads to the mineral springs region in central Victoria to look for a missing farmer, and she soon links the woman’s disappearance with the unsolved mystery surrounding her husband.
Meanwhile, maverick police officer and solo dad John Franklin is working a case that’s a step up from Daylesford’s usual soft crime: a stalker targeting single mothers.
Georgie’s investigation stirs up long-buried secrets and she attracts enemies. When she reports the missing person to local cops, sparks fly between her and Franklin.
Has he dismissed the writer too quickly? And what will the truth cost?
* * *
‘Worthy debut.’
– Herald Sun
* * *
‘Suspenseful, exciting, atmospheric rural crime; a riveting debut.’
– Michaela Lobb, Sisters in Crime Australia
Available in paperback and eBook
DEAD AGAIN – Released April 2017
Harvey and Franklin Book Two
* * *
It is almost two years since wildfires ravaged the tiny town of Bullock and Melbourne journalist Georgie Harvey is on assignment in the recovering town to write a feature story on the anniversary of the tragedy.
In nearby Daylesford, police officer John Franklin is investigating a spree of vandalism and burglaries, while champing to trade his uniform for the plain clothes of a detective.
When Georgie’s story and Franklin’s cases collide, she not only finds herself back in conflict with the man she’s been trying to forget since their first encounter, but she uncovers the truth about how the fires started – a truth no one wants to believe.
* * *
‘Sandi Wallace has mastered rural crime.’
– B. Michael Radburn, author of The Falls
* * *
‘A gripping twist on the bushfire threat all Australians live with.’
– Jaye Ford, author of Darkest Place
* * *
Available in paperback and eBook
INTO THE FOG – Coming Soon!
Harvey and Franklin Book Three
Melbourne journalist Georgie Harvey is on hand when three children disappear
from a police-run camp in the Dandenong Ranges during a treacherous storm.
Daylesford cop John Franklin nominated the young siblings for the camp and should have been in charge instead of 200 kilometres away. He abandons his secondment to head the search.
Somebody saw the children. Somebody knows something. But fears build as the polar blast intensifies. Every minute is vital, yet local detectives push the Daylesford crew to the outer.
Georgie follows a cyber trail linking a serial predator and another missing girl, while Franklin returns to Daylesford to pursue inquiries with the children’s friends.
Franklin and Georgie risk everything as they race to avert tragedy…but the odds are stacked against them.
Out soon in paperback and eBook
About the Author
Sandi Wallace is a self-confessed crime-fiction addict having devoured it in print and on screen from an early age…about which time her dream to be a crime writer began. Dead Again is her second rural crime thriller starring Georgie Harvey and John Franklin. It follows Sandi’s debut novel, Tell Me Why (winner of the 2015 Davitt Award Readers’ Choice and shortlisted for the 2015 Davitt Award Best Debut). Sandi has also won prizes for her short crime fiction and is a contributing author of the anthology Writing the Dream. She is currently at work on the next instalment in her series, along with a standalone psychological thriller. Sandi lives in the beautiful hills outside of Melbourne with her husband and furry family.
Connect with Sandi at
SandiWallace.com
Amazon
Goodreads
Facebook
On The Job Page 11