Darklands Book 2: Something Wild This Way Comes

by Autumn Dawn

  When Elizabeth was full, she would play for a while on the rug on the veranda, usually falling asleep amid her soft toys while Camille showered. While the baby was napping, Camille ate breakfast and then worked on cleaning the house and tidying the garden, only breaking when the baby demanded attention.

  After lunch, they would spend an hour or two at the beach admiring the kangaroos and paddling in the shallows. Then Camille would swing the baby onto her back as they prowled the shoreline, looking for interesting shells and pebbles.

  For a day or two after Detective Sergeant Donnelly's appearance, Camille was on her guard, half expecting him to appear at her door or on the sand dunes. But he didn't show and Camille chose to ignore the vague disappointment that tinged the relief she felt.

  With her precious burden, Camille was very aware of the changing tides in those first few days, cautious not to stroll too far from the path in case the rushing tide trapped them against the cliff face. Every day she felt confident to walk a little further, enjoying the wind in her hair, the soft sand between her toes and the nonsensical chatter of her little companion.

  Camille watched her niece closely but the little girl did not appear to be missing her mother in any way. She wondered sadly if the child had forgotten Verity altogether. After all, she had been just three months when her mother had left her with Camille.

  Camille's heart ached that the baby would never really know her mother, and Verity would never see the girl and the woman that Elizabeth would one day become. She could see so much of the mother in the daughter, not least her pink and blonde coloring and her sparkling blue eyes. There was also something of Verity's vibrancy and spirit in her niece, and she was consoled by the thought that some part of her sister lived on in the child.

  If ... no, when they were out of this mess, she would dig out every photo she had of Verity and make a scrapbook for Elizabeth. And she would write down her memories of her sister so that Elizabeth would at least know something of her mother.

  The fresh air and sunshine usually contrived to send both baby and woman to bed far earlier than in the city. After Elizabeth had finished her evening feed and bath, Camille would read to her until her eyelids closed and then creep out to the kitchen to make her own dinner, which she ate outside. An inquisitive possum, attracted by the lights and the possibility of food scraps, had taken to visiting the garden at the same time every evening, but as yet was too shy to approach close to the house.

  Camille knew she was relaxing into the slow pace of World's End, and while she was aware that it was dangerously seductive and warned herself repeatedly to be on her guard against it, she found it hard to remain on high alert in a place where she felt at home and where life meandered along at its own sweet pace.

  Today, though, she needed to make her first proper trip into the village for groceries. At four months old, it was time Elizabeth started eating baby cereal as well as formula and it would be easier to introduce her to the stuff while she was settled at the house than when they were on the run—as they could be at any time.

  Camille knew she was going to have to act the part of a holidaymaker while she was in town and that meant eradicating any suggestion of wariness or anxiety in her attitude. She and Elizabeth would be just a mother and daughter enjoying a summer break away from the city. Relaxed and happy.

  Wearing jeans and sleeveless top together with her flipflops, Camille assessed herself critically in the bathroom mirror and noted that the bruises had completely disappeared. Yes, if only she could erase the dark strain from her eyes, she would pass for a holidaymaker, she thought, and Elizabeth in her hot pink tee-shirt and denim overalls looked the personification of a free spirit.

  Camille strapped the baby into her car seat and drove carefully along the rutted path until it merged with the main road into World's End. She noticed the big house on the hill and wondered who lived there now. Years ago, during her childhood visits to Millie, there had been a sad-eyed woman and a rather wild looking redheaded girl about Camille's age. Millie had known them, but Verity had said they were spooky and kicked up a stink every time Camille had wanted to invite the girl to go for a swim.

  It was just gone nine and the town was relatively quiet at this time in the morning, which was just the way she had planned it. She would get in and out with the minimum of fuss. She looked around at the picturesque nineteenth century storefronts and houses. It was as old-world as Camille remembered. When she had been a teenager, the town had seemed hopelessly old-fashioned and Verity had scathingly called it “pre-historic". But now, seeing it through adult eyes, it possessed a shabby vintage charm that managed to avoid pretension or cliché. Maybe one day, if she didn't end up behind bars, she'd come back here and draw it.

  There were a couple of seasonal shops selling beach and casual wear, suggesting that during the summer months, there was a sufficient influx of visitors to make a commercial impact, but by and large the town seemed focused on its own needs. A small supermarket was flanked by a bakery and a butcher, and scattered at each end of the high street were a hardware store and garden center, a greengrocer, a couple of takeaways and the ubiquitous Aussie pub. Banners across the street promoted the forthcoming summer fair. The village had probably changed little since her grandmother was a girl.

  Many old country and coastal settlements were all but ghost towns by the early twenty-first century as the youngsters gradually deserted them in favor of better work and lifestyle opportunities in the urban centers. But World's End seemed to have a good mix of youth and age, and tourism gave the township a buzz during the summer months.

  She glanced up again at the “old place” as Millie used to call the house on the hill. Ravenswood House. Surrounded on three sides by dense forest, it was the stuff of fairytales with its high walls, turrets and widow's walk. Growing up, Camille had heard some of the townspeople whispering of witchcraft and dark goings-on up on the hill. Millie of course had laughed up a storm about that. She told them that the woman there was sad and that was why she kept to herself. But still, Camille and Verity had wondered what really went on up there.

  She parked in the small public car park, thinking that in other circumstances, she would love the opportunity to wander in and out of the shops and stroll around the square with its monument to the servicemen and women lost in the World Wars. But right now she needed to keep contact to a friendly minimum until she felt comfortable in dealing with the well-intentioned curiosity that she knew would be directed her way.

  She knew the way small towns like World's End operated. Strangers were bombarded with innocuous-sounding questions until the locals were satisfied. Only then could they begin to be accepted by and absorbed into the community. But Camille couldn't risk accidentally giving something away, any more than she could risk arousing suspicion by appearing defensive. She wanted to appear at ease without inviting confidences or questions. She wanted to blend in with the community. She wanted to be invisible.

  Camille bought everything she thought she would need for the next week, including a pack of baby rice that she hoped Elizabeth wouldn't turn up her nose at. She spent almost as long at the nearby butcher, greengrocer and deli, stocking up on chicken, fresh fruit and vegetables, as well as her favorite cheeses. After piling the bags and boxes into the car, she carried Elizabeth over to the bakery where she bought several loaves and bread rolls, planning to freeze some so that she wouldn't need to come into the town again for a while. Her last stop was the liquor outlet for a couple of bottles of red wine.

  She was debating between a Western Australian Merlot and a Victorian Shiraz, when a hand tapped her on the shoulder and Camille turned with a start. A redhead with intense blue-gray eyes and a huge expanse of pregnant belly that stretched between the end of her short tee-shirt and the start of her drawstring pants smiled at her. Her eyes followed Camille's and she laughed, patting her bump.

  "I know. Monstrous, isn't it? And still nearly four months to go.” Before Camille could respond, she d
ropped her gaze to Elizabeth, who had stuck a little finger out to point at the redhead's distended belly. “Hello,” she said and smiled at the baby, receiving a cheeky grin in return. “Hope my bub is going to be as cute as you."

  Camille took a step back and grabbed Elizabeth's hand, pulling it away from the woman. “Sorry,” she muttered.

  "Oh, don't worry. Believe me, even adults think that once you're pregnant you become public property. I can't tell you the number of people, friends and strangers alike, who consider it their perfect right to come and touch my belly and ask the most intimate questions.” She grimaced. “Max says it's preparation for the utter indignity of childbirth."

  Camille wondered if she should smile vaguely, mutter an excuse and run away, but it was a little difficult with a baby and shopping cart in tow. And the redhead's eyes were somehow reassuring.

  "Max?” she asked.

  "Oh, whoops. Sorry. Left out the introductions.” The woman shot out a hand to grasp Camille's free one, and it was as though a live wire had touched Camille's fingers. She gasped and pulled her hand away with a start but the woman didn't seem to notice.

  "I'm Rowan Byrne. My partner Max Larkham-Jones did this to me.” She stroked a hand over her belly. “I forgave him once the morning sickness finished. But when labor begins I may hate him again."

  Camille couldn't help herself and smiled back. The woman was just too disarming. “I'm Camille Aston,” she said. “And this is Elizabeth, my ... daughter."

  Rowan studied Camille in a way that said she knew Camille wasn't being completely truthful but she'd reserve judgement until she knew her better.

  "Come up and see me on Thursday morning.” She nodded her head toward the hill. “I run a mother and baby clinic between nine and one up at Ravenswood House."

  Camille's eyes widened. “The witch's house?” She flushed as she realized what she'd said.

  Rowan looked at her strangely for a second, then smiled and nodded.

  "Um, Elizabeth's fine,” Camille stammered. “I don't think...."

  The redhead nodded. “Come and see me anyway. We can talk.” She winced and clamped a hand to her protruding belly. She laughed. “Telling me it's time for morning tea. I'm on my way to the medical practice for a check-up. Max is the doctor there, which is why he knows all about the indignity of labor. Don't forget Thursday."

  She strode off toward the exit. Camille stared after her feeling as though she'd just been flattened by a steam train and wondering why on earth Rowan Byrne was so insistent that she and Elizabeth attend her mother and baby club. Mind you, she wouldn't object to getting a peek inside that wonderful old house. Ever since she was a girl visiting Millie, she'd wondered about the strange place everyone called the witch's house and the tall carrot-haired girl who ... oh, Lord. It was her! Of course, it had to be. That magnificent mane and the lively face.

  The last thing Camille wanted to do right at the moment was get too close to anyone but there was something irresistible about Rowan Byrne. Camille had always envied people who could talk to complete strangers as though they were best friends. Innately reserved, perhaps the result of being overshadowed by her golden sister, she had always preferred to observe rather than participate. The people skills she'd acquired in her work, and the need to network she'd discovered when setting up her business had helped her shield herself with a veneer of sophistication, but deep down she remained in awe of wild, spontaneous creatures like Rowan Byrne. And who wouldn't kill for that riotous mass of red hair and the eyes like a still lake. After she'd tackled the town, maybe she'd try her hand at a sketch of Rowan Byrne, although a woman like that really needed to be painted in oils to do her justice.

  A sudden sharp burst of chatter from Elizabeth brought Camille back to the present and she wondered exactly how long she'd been standing in the red wine aisle. She murmured an apology to a middle-aged woman who'd been waiting patiently for Camille to move, and grabbed the nearest bottle.

  "Let's see if we can make it out of town before we get waylaid again,” she said to Elizabeth, who gurgled happily, oblivious to the fact that drool was pooling on her chin.

  A sixth sense warned Camille to be cautious as she was leaving the store and she hung back in the dark interior for a moment carefully scanning the street. It was just as well. A familiar policeman was standing by her car. He hesitated for a moment and then walked in the direction of the market, disappearing inside.

  Camille's heart began to pound. She was in so much of a flap she didn't stop to question why he aroused such strong emotions within her, instead she simply made a run for her car. She had just secured her own seatbelt, about to hightail it out of there, when there was a knock on the driver's side window. She turned in a panic, ready to give Donnelly a piece of her mind, when she realized it was Noelene, the realtor. Redheads evidently couldn't stay away from her today.

  The plump woman was smiling in such a friendly way that Camille couldn't ignore her and just hit the gas. Sighing, she reluctantly wound down the window and plastered a half-hearted smile across her mouth.

  "Hi, Noelene."

  "Camille, how lovely to see you. How are you, love? And how's the cherub settling into that old place?” She peered inquisitively into the back seat where Elizabeth was settling down for a snooze. “Oh, isn't she a love with those blonde curls and big blue eyes."

  Oh, God, thought Camille. How the hell can I get out of this without appearing rude? Before she could come out with a response, Noelene was busy asking her about her holiday.

  "We're having a great time.” Camille tried to keep one eye on the supermarket exit as she smiled at Noelene. “Elizabeth is enjoying having the beach so close. We go down there every afternoon to watch the kangaroos and dip our toes in the water."

  "It's a ways from town, though,” said Noelene. “If it was me with a little kiddie, I'd want to be a bit nearer to civilization. Bit quiet out there. Creepy-like. Can't say how I'd like it much. In fact, I asked Nathan Donnelly, one of our local coppers, to keep an eye on you."

  Thanks a bunch! Camille thought.

  "Oh, we like the quiet life.” Camille spoke evenly enough but at that moment she could have throttled Noelene. That was the thing about country towns, everyone thought they knew what was best for everyone else. Not like the city where, even if someone knew you were in trouble, like as not they would simply ignore it.

  "No need for anyone to worry about us. We live a quiet life.” She started the engine. She had been gracious enough with Noelene, and wanted to get out before Donnelly came back out of the supermarket.

  "Yeah, I guess you city folks need to get away from it all from time to time,” Noelene said, ignoring the revving engine. “In fact, there was a bloke—"

  "Sorry, Noelene, I have to go,” interrupted Camille as the supermarket doors started to swing open down the street. “The baby will start screaming if I don't get her back for her feed. You know how it is."

  "Oh, yes, love. Take care now. You've got my number if you need anything."

  Nathan Donnelly appeared on the steps outside the supermarket looking fit and muscular in tan pants and a gray tee-shirt. He scanned the car park briefly before he saw her. He opened his mouth as if to call over to her but Camille was already reversing out and she deliberately kept her head averted, avoiding eye contact, as she pulled out onto the road. Inwardly she cursed herself for pressing the accelerator a little too hard and letting the tires squeal on the gravel. She wanted to avoid giving the impression she was in a hurry, but she wanted to avoid nosy police officers even more.

  Her heart rate calmed as she drove along the familiar route. What an idiot. She really needed to get a grip. Her usual calmness and sound decision-making seemed to have deserted her. True, she was flying by the seat of her pants but one way and another she had survived the first two weeks on the run. If, with all the millions at his disposal, her brother-in-law hadn't been able to locate her, she must have done something right. She just needed to remain vigilant, sh
e told herself.

  Camille realized she was doing herself no favors by avoiding the law. If Donnelly had anything at all on her, he would have arrested her or at the very least called her in for questioning. The police never took a softly-softly approach where a child was involved.

  Feeling somewhat more confident, Camille glanced over her shoulder. Elizabeth was fast asleep in the back doing her usual buzz-saw impression. It was a comical sight, the angelic-looking little blonde baby snoring like any seventy-year-old grandfather. She laughed to herself and wondered if all parents found their children's idiosyncrasies so endearing. It was one of a myriad reasons why she had fallen in love with her niece so quickly. At just four months, her sunny personality was as large as her gummy smile but at times her seemingly intense contemplation of the world around her made Camille wonder what she was thinking.

  Not for the first time, Camille asked herself if she was doing the right thing by the little girl. Maybe she'd misjudged the situation. Maybe there had been an explanation for what had happened to Verity. Maybe she should have approached social services or the police instead of simply running out in the middle of the night. Maybe it wasn't the right thing to do, but at the time it had seemed like the only choice.

  In the initial suffocating fog of fear and panic, Camille hadn't been able to think of one person she could turn to who could provide help of the kind she needed and she couldn't afford to trust people she didn't know with Elizabeth's future. She suspected that once the authorities were alerted, it would be all too simple for the baby to disappear into the system. Or worse, for influential people to intervene and have her returned to her father.