by Greg McLean
Could be even tougher. ‘Cutter never talked to me. Wouldn’t have a clue where he’s gone. He really only talked to Cunningham or Blackall.’
‘That’s what we heard,’ Roberts says and writes something in his notes. ‘Okay, son,’ he says and looks up, offers what passes for a smile. ‘Try not to dwell too much on this.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Mick stands and heads for the door, but when he glances back Kravic is looking at him again.
Every day he doesn’t recover the knife is another step closer to being discovered. But it’s getting too hard to borrow Simmo’s ute and leave the property at odd hours of the night. He needs more flexibility, to not have anyone looking over his shoulder. Not if he’s going to track down the Others.
That problem’s soon solved for him.
Despite the media blackout on Cutter’s disappearance, word spreads throughout the community and the station is black-banned. A cattle deal with Northern United falls through, and then no one bids on their cut-rate offerings at the saleyards. There’s talk of having to cull two hundred head of beef.
Pete and Rodge are the first to split. With Jock gone they’d lost their bravado, and the thought of having worked alongside a killer in Cutter – even arguing with him and maybe pissing him off – is too much. They grab their stuff and give notice, walking to the front gate and waiting for their ride there as if not willing to spend another moment at the station. It soon becomes a stampede.
Blackall calls a meeting and explains the station’s going to have to go into skeleton mode, keeping only a few core workers until the shit-storm blows over, if it ever does. Mick’s not one of those kept. He listens with a growing anger – despite the fact he caused all this – as Blackall sacks nearly everyone, and then the meeting’s over and he shuffles out, stunned, with the rest of them.
Opey watches him pack from the doorway, furrowing his brow when Mick winces in pain hefting his suitcase.
‘Don’t worry, Ope. Maybe the next jack’ll be into cow-rooting too. Ya can have a threesome.’
‘Fuck you, Mick.’
It’s said quietly, with no force, and Mick stops, studies him again, trying to work out his emotion. Takes a breath. ‘Maybe it’s a good thing, mate. Jumping when someone else tells me, running around doing someone else’s work – that’s not me. You’ll be manager here before you know it – long as this place isn’t run into the ground by then. But I can’t do this jacking life. I need me freedom.’
‘Yeah, you were hardly ever on the station.’
Mick stares at him. Opey knew his alibi for the salesman was false. Maybe the bastard can’t be —
Opey sees his expression. ‘Knew you were slipping out to that prostitute in Wills. Saw her give you her address. Where else would you be going at night, right?’
‘Right.’ Mick remains tensed.
‘But hell . . . Cutter. I knew that prick was a piece of shit. Sorry I doubted you about Bullet, Mick.’
‘Oh. That’s okay.’
‘So what you gonna do? Go back to doggin’?’
Mick thinks about it. ‘Yeah, could work.’
‘Then take me .22. I don’t need it. Fact, don’t think I wanna kill anything again after all this. Like Jock said.’
Mick hefts the small rifle propped against the wall. It’d do nicely for now. He stands awkwardly. ‘Well, good luck, mate.’
‘Yeah, you too,’ Opey says. And with that, maybe his only ever real friend walks out on him.
As a last-minute thought, Mick offers to buy Simmo’s old ute for half his saved wages, but the station hand just gives it to him. ‘You’re a good man, Mick,’ Simmo says, still in shock at the whole Cutter thing. His best mate Mercer had been given his notice that morning too. ‘Maybe it’s best you jump ship. Reckon I’ll try to stick it out.’ He claps Mick on the shoulder and Mick nods – embarrassed by the man just giving him his car – and doesn’t look back as he gets in and leaves the station – and his old life – behind for good.
9
Rose’s small weatherboard marooned by itself on the outskirts of Wills is a bit like the crumbling ruin in the desert that’d saved him all those years ago. It even has the same corrugated-iron water tank alongside. Mick gets out of the death-rattling car and walks over to the tap.
He lets the water run over his hand like he’s back at that house in the middle of nowhere, savouring that first touch of cool, then senses her standing quietly in the doorway, squinting at him through the blaze of light. He wets the back of his neck as if that’d been his intention all along, and she walks over.
She looks at his bag in the back of the tray.
‘It’s just for a while —’
She takes his hand and leads him inside. He glances into her bedroom as they pass and its scuffed floor and eyehook in the roof and sits at the kitchen table so she doesn’t take him in there. But instead she places a plate in front of him and sets about scrambling eggs.
‘I have some bacon. I been saving it, but a man should eat well. We’ll have to get more, though, when we next go into town. I don’t buy it often.’
He watches her work, her body slight beneath her nightie. The smell of the bacon wets his mouth. ‘I got money. I can pay.’
‘Good. ’Cause nothing’s cheap anymore. I do okay. Even starting to get back on my feet. But I only work a couple of nights a week and the hotel takes a bigger cut than you might think.’
He nods as she puts the plate down in front of him, and he starts to tuck in.
She stands watching him. ‘You don’t care what I do?’
He thinks about it, shrugs. ‘At least you have a job.’
She laughs and he smiles – he likes hearing a woman laugh.
Rose doesn’t press him to look for work and seems as if she’d be happy with him hanging around the house all day, following in her wake as she tends her two milk cows and the chooks out the back. But he’d be bored shitless before long doing nothing, and the money he’d saved from the station won’t last forever. So after a sleepless night in the unfamiliarity of lying next to her, he takes the ute and heads to nearby properties.
As he gets further out from Wills the number of dead kangaroos by the side of the road increases, legs splayed sluttish in the air. Wildlife must be rampant around these parts. Passing a long line of fence, he notices a sheep’s carcass amongst the grass on the other side and pulls over to look. Can see even from here the exposure of its gut, the jut of its ribcage. He pulls into the property.
At first, the owner – a slouch-bellied old coot called Knowles with a web of broken capillaries on his nose from sly drinking – shakes his head at the idea of a dingo stalking his herd: just wild dogs, he says. Noticed a couple taken in the last few weeks. Gonna go out and hunt ’em meself.
But Mick points out the delicate mauling of the sheep’s innards, the lack of footprints around. The native dog’s wily, he tells the man. This isn’t from a coupla pitties gone rogue. You’ll do your head in hunting it, wait up nights, shoot at shadows. And it’ll still come in under your nose and dip inta your stock. Can go on for years.
Eventually the man agrees to a price and Mick goes back to the house to prepare for a night or two camping out. Rose fixes him some salted corned beef and tea in a flask and doesn’t ask when he’ll be back. Though she does stand near the doorway as if expecting him to kiss her. He slips past.
That very night he tracks the lupine shape against the violet sky as it stakes out the clearing he’d planted with sheep’s blood. The bitch is a smart one and sniffs the metal of the trap from a distance, and retreats from the copse back into the night.
But Mick had determined its possible escape routes and laid more traps along the likely path. The first is just a feint; the second ones, hidden deeper in the dirt at the base of the ridge and wiped clean of all human scent, are less obvious. The bitch’s howl cuts the night soon after and Mick comes down from the rise and shoots her between the eyes with the .22.
She’s pregnant, but
that doesn’t stop him whistling while he skins, enjoying the warmth of blood on his hands, the cool night air on the back of his neck, the freedom of the open land around him. A man could get used to this.
The surprised farmer pays him in full and gives him the name of his neighbours, even an introduction to the local pasture protection board rep. And with that Mick has some income sorted – and more importantly an excuse to be out of the house.
Which buys him time to search.
The Black Shanty is the last of the pubs in Wills on the highway north towards Marble Bar and Port Hedland and the coast beyond. It’s also the most family-friendly of the hotels in town. The owners’ kids – two young girls about five and eight – run around the bar at lunchtime and are obviously well known by the locals, who feed them potato chips like they’re a couple of stray seagulls. Mick just smiles at them and sips his beer.
Pretty much everyone’s fat in the place – well-fed farmers and a couple of miners up from Kanjini in blue wife-beaters, a family enjoying hot lamb and mint sauce, some passing truckers. Mick searches their faces. But no one seems too interested in the kids and he sits into the afternoon growing moodier, knowing every day, every hour, means he’s closer to being found out.
All he has is Cutter’s word these psychos even existed. Mad bastard could’ve been pulling his chain. Might not have even left Mick’s knife with one of them. He could’ve left it close to the station, even hidden underneath the prick’s floorboards back at his quarters, something like that.
But somehow Mick knows that’s not the case. The police would’ve come for him already, for one thing, if it was that obvious. And there was something about Cutter’s glee as he was telling it. He seemed far too happy with himself to have made it up. And he’d spent all day away from the station, giving him time to travel wherever he liked.
Only good thing is, before he’d croaked, Cutter had let slip he’d planted it in something that would get checked eventually – a drum, probably oil. So the problem is finding the Others – three of them, the prick’d said – before one of them finds the drum.
Mick’d already wasted too many days, and although Cutter had supposedly hidden it to give him enough time to take out all three, every passing moment increases the risk. But how can he speed this up? He only knows of one of them – and only that he sometimes came to this pub. The other two, he has no friggin’ idea.
He has to take this one step at a time, run with what he has. No use getting his knickers in a knot.
He gets up for one last pint as if he has all the time in the world to sit in this place and the barman slaps out a glass, and glances at the table Mick’s been sitting at the last few hours. ‘Thirsty work,’ he says.
‘Just breathin’s thirsty work in this bloody heat.’
‘Got that right. Though watch ya language, if you don’t mind.’ The barman nods at the girls running past. ‘Wanted sons meself – keep the name going, ’n this place. But, fuck it, ya take what you’re given. Excuse the French. Gotta watch that meself. So you just passing through, young fella?’ Mick narrows his eyes. The barman’s watching his kids run in and out of the rear door. ‘Bloody school holidays,’ the man mutters with a smile, then glances at him waiting for an answer.
‘Nah. Staying around a while. Try me hand at dogging. Looks like you got a problem ’round here.’
‘Dingo-hunter? Shit, been a while since we’ve had one of those in these parts. Hard way to make a living, son.’
Mick shrugs. ‘In the blood.’
‘I got a few people might be interested in putting some money your way. I’ll ask around. That way ya won’t waste every afternoon in here. Just some of ’em.’
‘Appreciate that.’ Then he takes a punt. Sticks out a hand. ‘Name’s Mick.’
‘Bruce, mate. Bruce Monteith. Live here with me wife Sal, and Katie and Becky. You’ve met the monsters. Try not ta step on them.’
Mick smiles and raises his glass. He notices a newspaper sitting open on the counter.
‘Take it if ya want,’ Bruce says as Mick stares at it. ‘Terrible business, that. Hit Nullagine hard. There’s a tin going if ya want to contribute.’ He nods at an aluminium can next to the taps with a handwritten sign that reads ‘Maynard fire’. Mick slips in some dosh and heads back to his table to slowly read the front page. Doesn’t even notice one of the kids bang into his chair. Or Bruce swearing at the pair to get the blimmin’ hell outside if they’re gonna act like bloody monkeys.
It’s not the event itself that catches Mick’s eye – a mother and her three children dying in a house fire in the nearby town of Nullagine. Many of the houses in the bush had their wiring done on the cheap decades ago. Ticking time-bombs, the lot of them.
What’s interesting is the location of the bodies. A drawing shows the mother died in her bed, but the children were scattered throughout the house, one even making it to the back door. Mick looks up and watches the running girls giggle as their father chases them between the tables, their delight evident in their laughter. Thing is, would kids like that leave their mother to burn in bed? Wouldn’t they go to her first thing? Unless the fire started in the bedroom itself, took her out before anyone realised. But the article says it’s believed there was an electrical fault with the stove.
He turns the page, though his mind keeps churning over. If he broke into a house, spent some time there enjoying himself – just saying, fuck you, Cutter – he’d cover it up with a fire too. He’d be smarter than leaving the bodies of the kids so obviously like that, but the rest of it’s a good plan.
Which suggests there are indeed killers like those Cutter spoke of. And maybe they’re not as well hidden as they thought.
The next page has a small article about the salesman. Mick stares sightlessly at it, avoids taking in the smiling stock photo. There’s no mention of Cutter – the police obviously keeping the search for him quiet, so as not to tip him off – and it’s not being treated as a murder, or even suspicious at this stage. But if he can read the truth of the fire others can probably do the same about this. City bloke going missing is news. Which he should’ve known.
He has to stop himself tearing up the paper. ‘See ya again, mate,’ he says to Bruce on his way out. He smiles uncomfortably at the little girls waving at him. Both of them innocent and wide-eyed. Like bait.
*
When he returns, Rose takes his hand and guides him to the bedroom. She sees the hesitation in his face and pushes him back onto the kitchen chair. ‘We don’t have to do that every time,’ she says softly and lifts her skirt. She mustn’t be wearing underwear because she straddles his lap, back pressed against the table for support, and undoes his belt. She frees him and he’s surprised to be hard, the little fella straight as a ruler. Then she hitches up a hip and moves over him, swallows him with her dress and he thrusts up into warm wetness. With both hands on his shoulders, legs either side, she arches up onto her toes and rides him slowly, firmly. Her breath is sweet on the top of his head. Her breasts graze his face. He closes his eyes and lets them stroke his cheeks.
But she’s still in control. He stands, still inside her, and shoves her onto the table. Rattles the dishes at the other end but there’s enough room for her to lie back surprised. Her face is flushed, sweating, and her eyes flicker with pleasure. He winces at sudden pain in his back and she looks at him with concern, feels the bandage on his back through his shirt before he can take her hand away.
Her skirt is mussed around their joining and when he lifts it out of the way she stays his hand, thinking him uncomfortable at the sight of her still. ‘It’s okay,’ he says and pares back the skirt, exposing her. His chest tightens at the sight but he forces himself to keep thrusting, not look away as she gasps and tightens around him and when he boils up she lifts her skirt to her breasts and he withdraws and shoots over the scars on her stomach.
‘Can you get me a towel?’ she asks quietly.
He stands for a moment by the narrow washbasin in the ba
throom, stomach lurching at the smell of sex drifting up off him. Then he forces himself to grab a cloth and go out again.
‘Didn’t think I could cum from just that anymore,’ she says smiling.
He nods, doesn’t say anything.
‘That was nice, Mick,’ she says, pulling him to her. ‘Real nice. I hope you thought so too.’
He finds himself hugging her back and they stand there for long minutes, just the two of them in that musk-smelling kitchen and for a moment he forgets everything.
There’s another article about the salesman the next day – speculating as to whether he got lost while drunk and fell the steep drop into the tip, or was the victim of foul play. The story also reports the reaction of his family, who’d reported him missing the moment he didn’t call in, fearing something had happened. Which indeed it had. Their quick actions had given police a jump on the investigation. That and Cutter’s fucken tip-off.
Even though he’d set up the station’s Kiwi shooter for the crime, Mick still grips the paper too tight, feeling a bubbling panic like acid inside at the thought of being locked up for the rest of his life.
Or worse – one of the Other killers getting him first.
He forces himself to take a deep breath and calm the fuck down. Finding each of them would be like any hunt. Look for the signs, anticipate where to camp, don’t let ’em see you first.
And be patient; always trust in yourself.
10
Mick had learnt patience long ago. Would never have survived without it.
When he woke from his fever, he had pushed himself to his feet, and stood swaying in the small bare living room of the abandoned house, before forcing himself into the kitchen to search the cupboards for the rat’s nest. He found another lump of biting fur that didn’t know enough about humans to run, and he cornered it and brained it with his clumsy fist. Then he built a small fire in a pit outside, skewered it on a spit and ate it clean.