‘I hope you find out,’ Dave said, getting up. He paused at the door. ‘You know, it worries me that you think Dominic will threaten you. I’ll be putting that in my report and also mentioning it to the police at Jindabyne.’
Eliza screwed up her nose. ‘Won’t make any difference,’ she said. ‘They’re all in his pocket. They’re his mates—the policeman, the doctor, whoever else you’d like to mention. I just have to make sure I’m not found, and I’ll be fine.’ She gave a watery smile. ‘Anyway, who’s going to think to look for me deep in the Flinders Ranges?’
Dave said his goodbyes and left, feeling apprehensive. He’d heard people say things like that before.
Sometimes, those people had ended up dead.
The door clicked behind Dave and Eliza was left alone, staring into space.
Well, that was it. He knew now and soon Dominic would too.
She had tried so hard to forget her old life. As with ‘Fight Song’, often Eliza looked to affirmation quotes to help her get through the hard times. She had a few Blu-Tacked to the wall.
One, from Outlander by Diana Gabaldon, read: ‘You forget the life you had before, after a while. Things you cherish and hold dear are like pearls on a string. Cut the knot and they scatter across the floor, rolling into dark corners never to be found again. So you move on and eventually you forget what the pearls even looked like. At least you try.’
It wasn’t the things she cherished that she wanted to roll into the darkest corners; it had been the abuse she’d suffered at the hands of a man who declared he loved her. She had been succeeding too. The sadder thoughts and experiences, even though they still emerged occasionally, were the pearls resting in dark corners. But there were others still spinning across the floor or under chairs, ones that could be seen.
Now, the pearls from dark corners were reappearing. The lump of anxiety in her throat sat like a stone. The need to run, to hide, to lash out and scream, or hit something, was at the surface.
She didn’t want to feel like this again, dammit! She wanted to feel free, and cared for and safe. Here, in this little town, with these people around her, she did.
Or, at least, she had.
Chapter 28
Dessie woke and stared at the ceiling, gently testing his body as he did every day. There seemed to be ever more aches and pains but, at eighty, he wasn’t surprised. Still, whatever his physical shape, and after all these years, he still loved giving pastoral care to people in northern South Australia.
Blinman, in particular, had seen its fair share of tragedies since its establishment in the eighteen-fifties, when copper had been found in the area. He’d first arrived in 1955, as a fresh-faced twenty-year-old, and he’d had one steep learning curve. Over the years Dessie had discovered how best to talk to these people, and it was straight down the line. There was no time for anything else out here.
The men were tough, strong and resourceful. Resilient. They had to be, and the women were too. Now, two generations on, Dessie could see the children had been raised to be the same way. It gladdened his heart to see the younger generation standing strong, like their fathers before them. Jacob Maynard was one of them; as was Stuart, who had just married Stacey; and Mark Patterson. They were community focused, as he’d seen last night.
He reflected now on how the townsfolk and surrounding station owners had reinvented themselves more than once. He’d watched the pastoralists struggle in the nineteen-sixties, as wool prices started to drop and drought had begun to bite hard.
That was the problem with this area, Dessie thought as he stared at the ceiling, his hands behind his head. It was boom or bust. It was either drought or the best season they’d ever had.
Many had thought the closing of the police station in 1970 would be the end of Blinman. They had feared that other essential services, like the post office, would be taken away too and suddenly there wouldn’t be a town at all.
It hadn’t been the end. The community had once again banded together, by building a golf course and cricket pitch. Sport was such a big thing in country towns and Blinman was no different. Saturdays had been spent on the golf course, with a few beers at the end of the day. This had given the pastoralists an opportunity to talk to each other about how they were going and how the season was coming along. Cricket provided light relief—if also fierce competition—as had tennis.
And the women in the area found companionship through the Country Women’s Association meetings, and then the party line phone system had been installed, making a world of difference. Of course, you’d have to talk in code on the phone or avoid discussing private business, given the temptation everyone had to pick up the receiver and listen to someone else’s conversation. Dessie smiled to himself, still hearing all the women chattering on the phone line, organising dances and dinners.
He smiled again as he remembered the old black phone with one handle. Every house had a different ring, which was how you knew if the call was for you. Or you could dial the exchange and ask for an extension. 28H had been Mary and John Caulder’s number. He’d rung it often. Dessie hoisted himself up and looked at his watch. It was time to get a move on.
The countryside looked in good shape, he acknowledged, as he drove to John and Mary Caulder’s station.
The native grasses were six inches tall and stood waving gently in the breeze. He thought to himself that the colours in this part of the country were different. The grass wasn’t the rich, deep green that was found in the south of the state—it was more of a lighter khaki. Some of the bushes were blue—hence the name bluebush—and the acacia trees were olive.
As he neared the homestead, he looked across the flood plain and saw sheep sitting contentedly under the trees along the edge of the creek. He was pleased to note they had full stomachs.
He could remember when the same area was nothing but dry and barren ground. There wasn’t a blade of grass, and the bushes and trees had barely any leaves, as the sheep had eaten them. Skinny ewes, with hip and rib bones protruding from under their freshly shorn skin, would walk the paddocks endlessly, looking for even a skerrick of grass to eat. Carcasses would litter the watering points, and the sun shone endlessly from a cloudless blue sky, day after day.
He pulled up in front of the Caulders’ house, where roses and geraniums were flowering. The lawn was a lush green, and Dessie knew that around the back, there would be a flourishing vegie patch.
John opened the front door immediately; it was obvious that he had been watching for his friend. They shook hands and slapped each other on the shoulder.
‘Come in, come in. It’s good to see you.’
‘I was just thinking how beautiful the paddocks are looking at the moment,’ Dessie said once they were sitting in the sunroom and he had accepted a cup of tea from Mary.
‘It’s a wonderful season,’ John agreed. ‘I can’t remember when it looked so good.’
‘Do you remember the times when the only patch of green would be where you threw the washing water onto the lawn?’ Dessie asked Mary.
Mary looked over at John with a sad smile. ‘Oh, yes,’ she answered. ‘And the dust storms that would blow up. You couldn’t see your hand in front of your face sometimes. I was always scared I’d get caught out in one and suffocate.’ She shuddered. ‘Ugh, the grit! Cleaning up afterwards with a shovel and a broom.’
‘I can remember shooting sheep,’ John said. ‘It was kinder than letting them starve.’ He closed his eyes and Dessie knew he was trying to shut out the memories.
‘But then the rains come,’ he said softly.
John grinned as he raised his cup of tea, his sadness gone. ‘Always rains after a dry spell.’
‘Yes, dear,’ Mary said. They laughed. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard that!
Then she banged her cup down and laughed again. ‘Do you remember when the party line was first installed? Mrs Green couldn’t help herself. She picked up the phone whenever it rang, and always listened to everyone else’s co
nversations.’
John’s face darkened. ‘That was how everything got out after . . .’ his voice trailed off. He looked down and picked at a thread on his overalls.
They all knew what he was talking about.
The three of them never talked about the tragedy if they could avoid it. Dessie had always told them they should, and they had made themselves at first. But, as time went on, the memories had become more painful, rather than time lessening them, and now it was easier never to mention it.
But Eliza coming to Blinman had changed all that.
‘Come on.’ John stood up.
Dessie could see he was keen to escape the conversation, so he gulped at his hot tea.
‘I’ll take you for a drive and show you a bit of the country,’ John said. ‘Might as well see it when it’s looking as good as it is now.’
After the men had gone, Mary sat lost in thought. She missed her friend every day, but tried only to think of her when she was by herself.
On a whim, she dragged out some old photo albums and started flicking through the pages. There they were, the four of them. Young and happy. With unlined faces, and unaware of what was going to befall them.
She traced the young John’s face. He was sitting on a horse, behind a mob of cattle. Mary could remember the day clearly. They were taking the mob into some makeshift yards to brand the calves.
She’d loved sitting behind a mob, moving them gently across the countryside. The air had been beautiful that day: smelling clean and moist after some drizzle the night before. Mary wished she could bottle the smell of rain on dry earth.
Once the cattle were safely in the yards and drafted up, Mary lit the fire for branding. When it was hot enough, John and Richard put the branding irons into the fire. They had then worked methodically through all the calves, cutting the bulls’ ballsacks open, extracting the balls, then putting a hot iron onto the rump and leaving a burn mark with their brand on it.
After they had branded the heifers, they opened the gate, and let the cows and calves mother up and graze across the paddock. The branding fire was turned into a barbecue fire, and the four of them sat around on logs, swishing away flies, and eating damper and salted beef. They boiled the billy on the coals and drank black tea with lashings of sugar. Nearby, the horses grazed, hobbled by chains around their pasterns.
On the ride home, they’d raced each other and John had won—he was the best rider of them all. They’d arrived back at the homestead just as the sun was going down. Sharing a bottle of rum, they sat and watched the colours of the ranges change from pink, to purple, to red, to gold, and finally to a deep blue.
It had been a perfect day.
Mary jolted her mind back from her memories, and swallowed hard before shaking herself.
‘Come on now, Mary-May,’ she said to herself, using her mother’s pet name for her. ‘You can’t get to your age without a few regrets and a bit of sadness.’
She flicked quickly through the rest of the photo album. Two pages from the end, she stopped at a portrait. Leaning in close, she adjusted her glasses and stared at the face for a long time.
They had the same shaped eyes. She looked harder. Perhaps their noses were similar? And the shapes of their faces?
Mary closed the album. She wished she understood.
Chapter 29
It had taken him a while to decide, but now he was convinced it was the only way to go. Dominic would go to Port Augusta and see if he could find Ashleigh himself. Simon was obviously going to be no use to him.
Simon. He’d turned out to be more of a hindrance than a help. Dominic thought he had enough of a hold over the other man that he wouldn’t turn on him, but he had to be sure.
Dominic knocked on Simon’s door and waited, his hands in his pockets. When the door opened, Simon just waited, not inviting him in.
‘You’re not going to let your old friend in?’ Dominic asked in a jovial tone, his breath white in the cold night air.
‘What do you want, Dominic?’
Dominic looked around.
‘You should probably ask me in.’
Wordlessly, Simon stepped out of the doorway and let him through.
He’d just closed the door and was turning back to face him when Dominic shoved him violently. Simon staggered backwards, smashing against the door.
‘What the—’ Simon groaned and stood leaning against the door.
‘That’s just a little reminder,’ Dominic said, standing tall and imposingly over Simon’s hunched frame, ‘not to cross me. You’ll regret it if you do.’
‘I’m not going to turn on you!’ Simon snapped, gently feeling his cheek.
‘Really? That’s good,’ Dominic said quietly. ‘I’d hate to have to silence you, you know?’ There was a pause while Simon took in the insinuation. ‘So, how about you prove it?’
Simon looked down. ‘I won’t grass on you, but get the fuck out of my house now and don’t come back. I’m done with you, Dominic.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re done when I tell you you’re done. I’ve got one more job for you. How about we go into the lounge and talk about it? After you.’ Dominic indicated for Simon to go before him.
When they were sitting on the couch, Dominic leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. ‘After that vigil, there’s got to be information coming in from the Crime Stoppers hotline.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Simon answered. ‘If no one’s seen her, they won’t be ringing up, because there’s nothing to report.’
‘Someone knows something. I was given information that she pawned the pocket watch in Port Augusta.’
Simon snorted. ‘She won’t be there now. She could be north, west or south of there.’
‘That may be the case, but I’m going to try. I need any information you can get. I’m flying out tomorrow morning and hiring a car. I’ll stay away until I find something.’
Dominic watched Simon swallow nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. There were beads of sweat on his face.
Good, Dominic thought. Be very afraid. Then he told him, ‘And you’ll be coming with me.’
Simon said nothing.
‘Good, there’s no argument, then. I’ll see you at seven in the morning. You’d better pack a bag.’
Dominic turned and left the room.
Simon sat on his couch, Dominic’s words echoing in his mind, and shook his head. Half of him wanted to cry, he was so frightened, and the other half of him wanted to hurt Dominic very, very badly.
If only he’d realised that Dominic would own him forever, he would have taken his chances with Internal Affairs nine years before.
Simon had been an up-and-coming star at the Police Academy. He’d blitzed all his courses and everyone knew he would climb the ranks quickly. Jindabyne was his first posting and he had tackled it enthusiastically. Five weeks after he’d started in the job, though, it had all turned to shit and never got better.
He’d been on night patrol and, after a busy night of breath-testing drivers, he’d gone to the pub for a quiet drink with his partner. The next day, when he woke up, he found a woman he didn’t know in his bed. She had fresh bruises on her face and handprints on her upper arms.
He remembered staring at her, wondering what the hell had happened. Dread and panic had crept over him like an oil slick over water. Looking at her more closely, he realised that she was unconscious. His police officer instincts kicked in and he started to check her vitals, but she came to and started to scream.
‘Get away from me! I’m going to have you charged with rape.’
Simon had tried to calm her down, to tell her that he didn’t remember anything and—although he couldn’t explain the bruising—he was sure nothing had happened.
It didn’t make any difference. She held out her hands to ward him off while picking up her clothes, then fled from the house.
He’d wandered around in a daze until, two hours later, Dominic had arrived on his doorstep, with photos of the woman
propositioning him—or, at least, someone who looked like him—and of the two of them in bed. He promised that if Simon got information for him when he needed it, he would make this little problem go away.
Being so young and green, Simon had immediately agreed. He’d regretted it ever since. Now he knew there had been no evidence of him hitting the woman and that someone else had done it. He’d often wondered why Dominic had chosen him, and the only reason he had been able to come up with was that he, Simon, was new in the job and would be easy to manipulate.
Leaning forward, he rubbed his hand over his face and closed his eyes. What to do now? Stabbing the digits of the number he had committed to memory, he then listened to it ring and ring.
Fuck.
He could send an email but that would leave a paper trail. The phone would leave a trace too, but it would take longer to find—Dominic wouldn’t be able to pull his phone records quickly.
He knew he should just go straight to the New South Wales police and tell them what Dominic was planning.
But he couldn’t. He was in too deep. He had to go along with his plan.
He hoped that, wherever Ashleigh was, that she was well hidden. Maybe he could save her life and his own. He would pack his bag and hope like hell that things would turn out okay. There was nothing else for it.
‘Damn.’ He ground his teeth together, feeling the panic in his stomach rise. He tried the number again but there was still no answer. Of course there wouldn’t be. Those tiny police stations in tiny towns were never open at night. But there was usually an answering machine at least. He wondered why his previous call hadn’t been returned.
And then there was the man who had come to him on the night of the vigil.
‘Now, Simon, I know you’re not a bad man and you’ll do the right thing,’ he’d said. ‘You’ve just been caught in a trap with Dominic. I know that you wouldn’t want anything to happen to Ashleigh—can you imagine the guilt you’d feel?’
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