Ringer

by C. J. Duggan

  “Yeah, I suppose,” Dad said, thrusting his hands into his pockets and looking up at the moon. Ringer took a moment to glance around, trying to locate me; he flinched to full attention when Dad neared, and then passed him?

  “Ahhh.” Dad exhaled, perching himself on the middle step to the shearers’ huts; the wood groaned under his weight, my eyes widened, but that was nothing compared to Ringer’s reaction when he turned to face Dad. His eyes flicked to under the stairs and quickly looked away comically fast, so as not to give my hiding spot away.

  “Ever been to Wahroo, Ringer?” my dad asked. I inwardly groaned, lying on my back as Dad settled in to play questions and answers.

  “So, what’s your old man do for a living?”

  “Does Onslow get hot in the summer?”

  “What mile per gallon on the Ford do you get?”

  Oh God, I was going to be here for hours, trapped in the dirt, awkwardly scrunched up. Of course Ringer wasn’t helping, he had pulled up a step and sat next to Dad, politely answering his questions.

  Bloody hell, now was not the time for idle chit-chat.

  I seriously had to resist the urge to poke Ringer in the spine. And if something bites me in the arse while I am under here, I will blame Ringer. Sexy man or not.

  “Thanks for helping me with Miranda’s car today, too, mate.”

  My head snapped up.

  Ringer helped him? Aww …

  “That’s okay, it was nothing.”

  “It’s something that shouldn’t have needed to be done in the first place; by all rights, Miranda should have been on the open road if she wanted to, it wasn’t anyone’s place to stop her.”

  What?

  Ringer visibly shifted in his seat.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Nah, I mean it, Ringer, what I did was unforgiveable and if Penny found out, Christ …”

  I shifted up onto my elbow, listening with interest.

  What was he talking about?

  And just as that very thought ran through my mind, the step creaked again, almost as loud as Dad’s pained groan as he wearily moved to stand.

  He slapped Ringer on the shoulder. “So, for Christ’s sake, whatever you do, don’t tell the girls that the Mazda was tampered with. We’ll never hear the end of it.”

  WHAT?

  Dad chuckled, amused by his own thoughts. “Night, son, go get some sleep.”

  If it weren’t the light of the porch guiding Dad’s way back to the house, it would have been the laser beams of rage protruding from my eyeballs.

  The outside light flicked off, plunging us both into darkness. I heard Ringer sigh, but I didn’t know whether it was in relief or resignation; either way, I didn’t really care. All I wanted was to crawl out from my cramped little hiding space. I edged out rather inelegantly; it was a struggle to find purchase to stand since my right leg had gone to sleep. Ringer moved to help me up, but I pushed him away.

  “You tampered with my car?” I shouted.

  Ringer winced, glancing back towards the house. “Keep it down. No, I didn’t.”

  “But you knew about it?”

  “I only found out yesterday,” he said, defending himself.

  “That’s twenty-four hours’ plenty of chance to tell me.”

  “Well, we haven’t exactly been on friendly terms.”

  “You mean before or after you had your hands down my pants last night?” I scoffed.

  Ringer crossed his arms, “As far as I recall you weren’t wearing any pants,” he said smugly.

  My face blanched at the memory. I hated him for reminding me of the fact, of my wanton walk into his room last night. It made me feel stupid; it was a feeling that I really didn’t need to fuel my rage. I breathed a calming, yet shuddery breath; I closed my eyes, feeling hot tears pool behind my lids. I was suddenly thankful for the dim lighting, thankful that we had been interrupted from making what I could now see would have been such a colossal mistake.

  I didn’t want to be Ringer’s summer fling, and truth be known, now I didn’t have to be, I was free. Free to leave this dustbowl of a place, free to leave my traitorous parents, but more importantly, the infuriating boy that stood opposite me, the one that made my heart thunder and my cheeks burn. What had I been thinking before, wanting more from him? He was just a cad like every other man I knew.

  “You can’t be mad at your dad for caring; yeah, it’s extreme, but he had good reason.”

  “There is no excuse,” I snapped.

  Ringer plunged his hands in his pockets. “He told me about the accident.”

  My eyes snapped up to meet his. That one singular sentence sucker punched me, knocking all breath, all clear thought. That night had always been a constant source of shame. It was something I wanted to push to the furthest corner of my mind, and why wouldn’t I want to? It was the night that I almost killed my best friend; the scar on Mel’s face was a permanent testament to the fact. It was also a huge part of me not wanting to come back and face these ghosts, to be faced with the same distrust from my parents even after all these years. The fact I had even asked Mel to borrow her car last night to escape for my own selfish reasons made me feel physically ill just thinking about it. Even though we had now discussed it, I still felt guilty for my stupid choices. How could I not?

  What was wrong with me?

  “Is that why we trekked across the paddocks last night, so they wouldn’t know?” he asked gently.

  I could feel my blood boil; I didn’t need him to point out the irony. That the reason I couldn’t be trusted was, well … because I couldn’t be trusted.

  What could I say to that?

  My mind was overheating; the more Ringer said the madder I became. I didn’t want to see reason or logic; I just wanted to be mad. Be mad at Dad and at Ringer. The incredulous feeling of betrayal was so much easier to process than the reality of my self-loathing. So I did what I did best in these situations.

  I walked away.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  RINGER

  I closed my eyes the moment the words tumbled out of Steve Henry’s mouth. Yep, a definite mood killer.

  Miranda stormed past me towards the house.

  I inwardly groaned, looking up at the sky. “Miranda, wait.” I sprinted after her, moving to block her path.

  She glared up at me. “Move.”

  I stood tall, defiant and crossed my arms. “No.”

  I half expected her to abuse me with a long line of insults; instead, she did something much worse and far more unnerving.

  She smiled sweetly.

  My brows knitted together, staring down at the vision of a blonde angel; I slowly let my guard down thinking maybe she was actually coming around? And just as a small line lifted the corner of my mouth, Miranda’s smile slowly fell from her face as she let out a blood-curdling, ear-bleeding scream. I leapt to cover her mouth, to muffle the sound that had me jumping out of my skin at the unexpectedness of it. What wasn’t unexpected were the lights turning on, first from the shearing huts, then the outside light to the homestead.

  Fuck!

  I let Miranda go and dropped to the ground. I rolled under Sean’s ute in the nick of time, as the screen door burst open and Miranda’s dad appeared in just his jocks and armed with a cricket bat.

  The sound of feet pounding on the gravel and coming to a halt made me cringe as I saw a gathering of legs appear.

  “What’s going on?” asked a breathless Sean.

  “Sorry, everyone, false alarm, I thought I saw a snake in the drive,” Miranda said.

  “Good God, Miranda, we thought you were being murdered,” said Miranda’s mum.

  “I’m so sorry, I was just getting something out of my car.”

  “So there’s no snake?” said a yawning Moira, who almost sounded disappointed.

  “All right, show’s over, folks,” Steve Henry announced.

  A series of sleepy mumbles sounded as I watched the barefoot shuffles in the dirt as the
boys slowly disbanded back to the shearers’ huts, and heard the sound of the wire door opening and closing as the Henrys went inside, but none of that held my interest. My gaze was solely fixed on the pink polished toenails and the long legs that disappeared out of view, her thongs flip-flopping up the steps, the door sounding for the last time, and then a moment later the outside light went out, plunging me into darkness.

  I held my breath, thinking that the simple motion of exhaling would interrupt my efforts to listen, what for I wasn’t sure. Miranda had gotten what she wanted; she was inside now.

  I groaned, shifting myself from under the ute, pulling myself to stand, brushing off the dirt from my jeans and shoulders before flinching at the shadow in the corner of my eye.

  The shadow chuckled. “You are so fucked.”

  Sean.

  He casually leant against the tray of his ute; his smugness was not lost on me.

  I was in no mood for this.

  “Don’t start.” I glowered.

  Sean shook his head. “Ain’t love grand.”

  ***

  Too many late-night rendezvous are bound to catch up with you; this was clearly the case as I felt the harsh kick to my bed.

  “Get up, lover boy! We’re heading.”

  I groaned, burying myself deeper into my wrapped cocoon as I ignored Chris’s voice. My attempt of ‘ignore it and it will go away’ was short lived when my bed started to shimmy violently. I sat up, squinting at Toby rattling the foot of my bed.

  “Let’s go, Ringo,” he shouted.

  “What do you need me for?” I croaked.

  “Well, that’s bloody nice, we’ve come all this way and you can’t even open the gate for us?”

  I sat on the edge of my bed, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. “Get stuffed.”

  As I slowly pulled myself out of the dregs of sleep I took in the scene before me. My mates, dressed and ready to start their adventure. All bright and upbeat: it was enough to make you sick. Nothing about this scene was right, and the fact it was still dark outside seemed just wrong. I grabbed for my jeans, peeling them on, one leg at a time.

  “You may hate us now, Ringo, but wait till we bring back the big one,” Stan said, miming casting a fishing rod. I smirked, watching my delusional friend.

  I stood, slapping Stan on the shoulder. “Haven’t the girls told you size doesn’t matter?”

  “Oh, ha-ha,” said Stan, as I pushed past him to the sink in the corner of my room. Splashing water onto my face, I blindly grabbed for a towel.

  “The Henrys must really trust you, Ringer,” said Toby.

  “Hmm?” I managed past the minty toothbrush in my mouth.

  “They’ve left already,” he added.

  I paused mid-brush. Well, that was unexpected, I honestly thought Steve would come say goodbye, if nothing else give me another neurotic rundown of my daily chores; he really was keen to get away.

  “They trust you, all right,” added Chris. “Leaving you here with their daughter.”

  “Their hot daughter,” added Stan. “Seriously, why do you suppose Max never mentioned he had a sister?”

  Chris rolled his eyes. “Gee, I wonder?”

  Rinsing and wiping my mouth with my towel, I offered a friendly whack to Stan’s ribcage as I made my way out onto the verandah.

  Sean was relaxing against the verandah post, looking off into the distance with amused interest as he sipped on a cup of tea. I collapsed into the chair outside my door, working to scrunch my socks up to put on my feet.

  “What are you looking so pleased about?”

  “Not so much pleased as intrigued; you might want to check this out.” Sean nodded towards the house.

  I got up from my chair, moving to stand next to Sean who had a better vantage point and view to the driveway. I followed his eye line and froze, my eyes narrowing.

  There she was.

  Dragging her ridiculously oversized duffle bag, struggling to lift it into the boot of her car.

  I could feel Sean’s eyes watch me with interest. “Seems like not all the Henrys trust you.”

  I didn’t really know what I wanted from Miranda, and it wasn’t just sexual frustration of two nights in a row of teasing. But, I know that I didn’t want her to leave. More so, I didn’t want her to leave me.

  Was I really willing to chase after her? Willing to ask her not to leave?

  I watched as Miranda gently pulled down the boot and pressed on it lightly. She was creeping around so as not to draw attention. Well, she had my attention all right, and as I watched her dart back quickly into the house, my mind was made up. She may have not wanted to see me, or hear me, but you don’t always get what you want.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Miranda

  By the time I heard the house stir into life I had made up my mind.

  And once I had, I wasted no time in getting up and ready; I wanted to do it before Ringer and the boys made it over to the house.

  I needed to clear my head, to think about what I almost did last night, what I had done the night before. I was becoming someone I didn’t wholly recognise anymore. I wasn’t so much as angry but confused. I knew it as much when I walked into the kitchen, I had the full intention of blasting my dad for messing with my car, but when I was met with a giant bear hug from him, all the resentment melted away, and I could feel my chin tremble like I was a small child.

  “Well, we’re all packed and ready to go.” He was so excited, I didn’t even have the heart to tell him I planned to leave too. I think he knew.

  He pulled back from his hug and looked down on me, smiling with warm affection. “I checked the water and oil on your car, she’s good to go.”

  “Well, we better get moving before the hungry hordes expect a cooked breakfast.” Mum laughed. “Miranda, I have left notes for Ringer for any household stuff, and our number is on the fridge.”

  Whoa, she wasn’t kidding, there were Post-it Notes everywhere. On the fridge, the pantry, the remote controls, and the TV.

  “Mum, I think Ringer will know how to operate a kettle,” I said, flicking the bright yellow square.

  “Well, just in case,” she said, wrapping her arms around me. “We’ll see you when we get back, be good.”

  Oh, dear Mum, always in denial.

  “What? We’re not saying goodbye to the boys?” Moira pouted, incredibly put out with no opportunity to view some man candy before she left.

  “Nah, let ’em sleep,” Dad said.

  “Miranda, there is cereal, fruits, toast and juice for when they get up; make sure they have something to eat before they go.”

  Ha! I hoped there were Post-it Notes for that, because I hadn’t planned to be here when they came up for breakfast.

  I gladly herded them outside with the last of their bags to the ridiculously over-packed car; they always over packed. I glanced towards the darkened shearers’ hut, grateful that there were no stirrings of life … yet.

  In true Dad style he had to warm the car up for what seemed like all eternity; I wrapped my arms around myself in the coolness seeing as the sun had still yet to pierce the sky. Each minute that passed my anxiety grew.

  “Well, drive safely,” I said in an attempt to hurry them along.

  Mum wound down the passenger window. “Oh, I can’t help but feel like I have forgotten something,” she said, her expression troubled. “Miranda, can you make sure I turned the iron off?”

  “I will.”

  “And can you make sure the boys don’t make a mess in the kitchen?”

  “Sure.”

  “Oh, and don’t forget to tell Ringer about the pot plants; Steve, did you tell Ringer about the pot plants? I didn’t put a Post-it on the pot plants.”

  I half expected her to ask me to check the attic for Macaulay Culkin; instead, I just bent down and pecked my mum on the cheek.

  “Go! It will be fine.” Mum seemed taken aback by my affection, a rare moment that hadn’t been exchanged between us in some time.
It was a nice way to part. Unlike my sister, whose elbows appeared propped from her open window in the back seat.

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” She wiggled her eyes in a hubba-hubba motion. There was just enough time to whack her outside the head before Dad pulled into gear.

  “Burn rubber, eat my dust,” he chanted. It was something about Dad behind the wheel of a car that evoked terrible Dad humour.

  I just laughed. “Have fun.” I stood back, waving, finally breathing a sigh of relief watching them circle and exit out the long, dirt driveway. I cringed when Dad tooted, my eyes flicking towards the huts.

  Still in darkness, good.

  When Mum and Dad’s car was no more than a speck in the distance, I bolted inside the house, through the kitchen and down the hall into my bedroom. I had all my stuff packed and ready by my door; I had been showered and dressed for hours, waiting for the perfect timing. And now with my family gone, never had there been better timing. I didn’t have to suffer the endless questions of where I was going. What I was doing? I had no real clear plan, other than to go see my brother, Max, which was a start.

  I dragged the biggest of my bags across the freshly polished floor before pausing at the door. My heart plummeted to my feet.

  There was a light on at the shearers’ huts.

  Damn!

  I was on borrowed time. I kicked the screen door open, pulling my bag out after me. Not wanting to put my back out, I dragged the big bulky weight behind me, leaving a very obvious drag mark in the dirt. I worked to open the boot and then, rather awkwardly, manoeuvred the bag into the car. My heart pounded, I closed the boot oh so gently before racing back into the house for my last bag. I dared not look behind me, to see what light was on now. I just had to move quickly and quietly and get the hell out of there.

  I shouldered the last bag and managed a quick glance around the kitchen; even in my hurry to leave, a small spike of emotion rose in my chest. I clamped it down. I wasn’t sure when I would see this kitchen again.