The Last Shot

by Michael Adams

  I step off the porch and follow a mossy brick path around the side of the house. Through the window, cupboards have been left open to air, chairs placed upside down on a kitchen table.

  I turn and scan the backyard.

  My eyes light on the darkest point. A metal shed in the shadow of the bush by the back fence.

  I follow the path, between apple trees, heart tight. There’s nothing to fear. That’s what I tell myself. Corpse, Goner, Minion: if there’s anyone in there they can’t and/or won’t hurt me.

  The black snake on the path might.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ I say.

  Lachie screeches.

  It seems to be sleeping. Reptile head resting on its coiled body, red underbelly showing, inky scales giving off a sickly rainbow sheen. I back away, giggling nervously that maybe this isn’t a snake just trying to warm up but a warning not to seek forbidden knowledge in this garden.

  To hell with that. I need to know everything.

  I catch my breath, step off the path and traipse through thick grass towards the shed. When I hold up my hand, Lachie hops onto my fingers and I set him down on a rusty loveseat.

  ‘Wait here?’

  The bird bobs like he gets it.

  I pause—one . . . two . . . three!—and throw open the shed’s sliding door. Dark shelves point to the back wall. Stacked with terracotta pots and bags of fertiliser. My eyes adjust. The dusty brick floor shows drag marks and tyre tracks. I pull lavender from one nostril and inhale cautiously.

  The stench is thick like soup. I stuff the flower bud back in my nose and cup a hand over my mouth. Against every instinct, I step into the shed. Even though I know what to expect, I still stiffen when I find the dead man in a back corner. He’s beneath a chainsaw and leaf-blower hanging on the wall. Half his bald head blown away. Shotgun resting alongside bloody jeans. Combat boots caked in dried mud.

  I force myself to look closer. Pretend I’m a crime scene investigator. Peer at the tread on his boots. Same prints I saw at the log cottage. His jeans are ripped at the calves and puncture wounds glisten with black blood. I carefully pull the shotgun over to me. Fiddling with it gingerly, I open the thing. Both barrels have a spent shell. I’m guessing Jack hasn’t left any ammo lying around. This gun’s as useless as the .38.

  On the opposite wall, where the shelving ends in shadows, a dirt bike leans against a ride-on mower. Chunky tyres, strong suspension: just the thing for navigating a car-choked highway. I reckon if I could check the licence plate I’d find that it—like Mr November’s smashed ride at the bottom of the cliff—is registered to someone in Clearview.

  A picture’s coming together in my mind.

  THREE

  I do my best thinking doing stuff that doesn’t require much thought. My bedroom was never cleaner than in the lead-up to exams. If I left a tricky homework essay alone to watch a bad movie I’d return and immediately see where I’d been going wrong. An hour spent skating would always give me a better handle on whatever had been worrying me.

  So when I get back to Mum’s I set about doing menial tasks.

  In the kitchen I fill a pot with water and put it over a high flame on the gas burner. I collect eggs from the chooks, gather tomatoes, onion, zucchini and spinach from the garden. Using some cheese and long-life milk, I whip up an omelette. I clear a bit of room at the dining table, chew my breakfast and watch the Elvis clock.

  As The King’s pelvis shakes the New Year’s seconds away, I realise I’ve been like a self-centred actor who’s only focused on her scenes. The way Emma was in our school plays. Now I try to imagine what else has been going on. There I was dithering in Jack’s dad’s house while Jack was out reviving Clearview men and sending them off as riders and pillions on motorbikes to Shadow Valley. Using them meant if something went wrong I wouldn’t recognise them as Minions. Good thing too, because they were attacked by dogs as they slowed to pass through Greenglen. The Bald Dude’s leg got ripped. Machete Guy jumped off or maybe he fell. Either way he died trying to hold off the pack while the others made their escape. Later, when I rode through, I thought the dogs were barking at me when they were actually after whoever was behind me. While I panted up the highway, the three remaining Minions were already in Shadow Valley, making sure I couldn’t revive Mum or make allies of any of her neighbours.

  I tidy the kitchen, scrape scraps into the compost and wash my dishes. What I’m seeing isn’t a sink of suds but Jack’s three murderous stooges. Having finished their bloody work, they needed to disappear before I arrived. Riding back up the hill would have risked running into me and that would have looked dodgy. Jack sent a Watcher up to the hills. But the other two Minions were surplus to requirements. Jack got the Bald Dude to wheel his bike into the shed. Mr November blew him away, then rode full throttle up the hill. The poor guy’s self-preservation instinct kicked in a second before the bike roared over the cliff. But jumping off at that speed killed him anyway.

  In the bathroom cabinet’s mirror I check out my head injury. The bullet furrow where I was shot by the Biker is spiky with stitches and ugly with scabs. But it’s not weeping blood or pus and the skin isn’t red or inflamed. I clean the wound gently, dab it dry and wonder why the Watcher didn’t come down from the hill to throw Mr November’s body over the edge. Best I can guess is Jack didn’t know I crashed my bike. He expected me to arrive at any moment and the risk of me catching the Watcher cleaning up was greater than me encountering just another road-kill corpse. Jack didn’t see me staring at the Employee of the Month photos in Clearview’s supermarket. He had no reason to think I’d recognise the guy. Just as it’s unlikely he realised his stooge had brushed against my mum’s painting as he left the studio. Smart as Jack is, he didn’t commit the perfect crime.

  I wash my face and brush my teeth.

  My theory feels right. I have to trust that it is. Go with my gut. Assume that everything I’ve done outside Mum’s house has been observed. To stay alive I’ll need my story to match what Jack’s seen. I have to make what I know work for me. That’s the way to get him off guard. That’s the way to get him dead.

  ‘So any thoughts on how I kill him?’ I ask Lachie.

  The cockatoo perches on one of Mum’s mannequins, ferociously engaged with a muesli bar I’ve given him. He’s not going to be much help. But I need to figure this out fast. One of the last things Jack said to me was he’d find me if I wasn’t back by New Year’s Day. It sounded caring then. Now it seems like a threat. If I let him come for me he may suspect something’s wrong. I have to take the fight to him.

  The .38’s useless as a weapon but I repack it in the bike panniers because it’s part of my story. If I had time I might find a rabbit gun on a neighbouring property. But I don’t reckon I’d get close to Jack with a loaded firearm. Especially not if his Spidey senses are tingling. My weapon needs to be subtler and smarter. As for what I’ll use, I’m as feather-brained as my sidekick.

  I leave Lachie to chew his oat flakes and try to see Mum’s house with fresh eyes, hoping for killer inspiration from her kitsch inventory.

  On a side table in the hall, a ceramic Betty Boop averts her eyes with a sly smile. BB, what would you do? Shrug everything off with a boop-boop-a-doop. In the spare bedroom, cowboys chase a Debbie doll on top of a bookcase. I’m pretty sure I can’t choke Jack to death with plastic toys. I push an antique rocking horse. It nods back and forward, as if to say yep, pardner, you sure are shit outta luck.

  On the kitchen sideboard sits the little Santa box that contained the Wonder Woman bracelet. As much as I appreciate Mum thinking of me as a superhero, I wish she’d given me a vintage garrotte, or maybe a darling little hand grenade. The knife on the bench and its cousins clinging to a magnetic board would do the job. But it’s not like I can conceal a blade under a lycra bike outfit. And even a small knife will be found if Jack searches my panniers.

  I rattle through the kitchen drawers. Eggbeater, spatula, whisk, rolling pin, wooden spoon, bottle opener, cocktail u
mbrellas, kebab skewers. Unless I intend to cheese-grate Jack to death, there’s nothing of use here.

  I recall the endless sugars Jack poured into his coffee back at Old Government House and the confectionery he scoffed when we got to the Clearview supermarket. Man has a sweet tooth. Drain cleaner, toilet bleach, mould blaster, silver polish: I could put that stuff into a soft drink or inject it into some chocolate or something. Except I’m thinking of the chemical arsenal my stepmother, Stephanie, stocked so our cleaning lady left every surface 99.99 per cent free of germs. When I open Mum’s cupboard all I find are spray bottles laced with bicarbonate soda, biodegradable acids and organic bioflavonoids. Give this shit to Jack to eat and I’ll probably improve his health.

  In Mum’s room, I open her wardrobe. It’s stuffed with vintage clothes. Unless I’m going to smother Jack with a feather boa, twist a coathanger around his neck or force feed him enviro mothballs, it’s another dead end. I slam the door and flop onto her bed, drum my fists against the doona, stare at the ceiling in frustration.

  It shouldn’t be like this. Jack’s power, wherever it comes from, should make him an angel not a demon. I should be giving thanks to heaven for him rather than thinking up horrible ways to send him to hell. Lying here, spreadeagled across Mum’s bed, I shudder at how close I might have to get to Jack to kill him. I flash to us in bed, having sex.

  A warm wave rolls through me. Maybe that’s what I need to do. Love him rather than hate him. Make him see the good in me and everyone. Use his power to heal rather than hurt. He can’t be irredeemably evil. No one’s that bad.

  I shudder, stiffen, snap out of my reverie with a gagging sound. I can’t believe I’m thinking this way. It’s like he’s seducing me from afar. Jack is the piece of shit asshole who killed my mum. I can’t ever forget that. He deserves to die. If I have to have sex with him to get his guard down, I’ll do it—and then suffocate him with a pillow. Or slice his dick off—and watch him bleed to death.

  God. What sort of person would do what I just thought? Maybe I’m no better than Jack. I force all these thoughts away, jump up and keep looking for a weapon that will save me from the bed option.

  I clack through the boxes and bowls of jewellery on Mum’s dressing table. When I open an antique music box, a little ballerina pirouettes in front of a mirror to the tinny strains of Swan Lake. But it’s what’s in the felt-lined compartments that makes me smile. I pick a tightly rolled joint from Mum’s bundle of ready-rolled inventory and inhale its potency. Somehow it smells purple. But what’s inside is the pure green power of Mum’s heavy-duty homegrown.

  I check myself out in the mirror. Dirty sneakers, skinny jeans, thin arms folded defensively over T-shirt, wet eyes framed by a stitched scalp and a mess of black hair. Killer chick: not so much. Chicken shit: more like.

  Changing into my bike-wear at least makes me look a bit ninja. I’m about to slip back into my sneakers when my eyes roam the tangled column of shoes wedged between the wardrobe and the wall. Mules, pumps, slides, stilettos: all destined for Mum’s market stalls. I trigger an avalanche of footwear when I pull free what I want.

  I hold up a pair of boots. Ruby red. Fourteen holes. I pull them on. Stand and flex. They’re a little loose. Nothing thick socks and tight lacing can’t fix. These babies won’t make the ride out of Shadow Valley any easier but they will offer some protection if I have to ride a gauntlet of savage mutts in Greenglen. And they make me feel more kick-ass.

  I bounce along the hallway, getting used to the chunky soles. On each lap, I consider the chessboard on the end table inside the front door. White and black are still frozen mid-battle just as Mum and I left them on my last visit. My throat tightens at the memory.

  We played for hours in the shade of her Wollemi pines, Mum sipping a red wine and me enjoying her homemade lemonade. The boombox warbled out songs from the psychedelic era and between moves we coloured in the trash-to-treasure flyers she posted on telegraph poles up and down the mountains. Mum had won three games to my two when we decided to continue inside because it was getting cold. Once we were in the door, she went for more wine, I put Courtney Love on the stereo and our match remained TBC.

  That was the last game we ever played. I smile when I think of the first one.

  ‘I promise it’s more fun than Angry Birds,’ she said the day she decided I had to learn how to play chess.

  I rolled my eyes.

  She laughed. ‘Or whatever app-crap it is that you’re into now.’

  Mum showed me how to set up the board and described the pieces in typical Mum fashion.

  ‘The man, the king, is the most important piece,’ she said, chortling as she demonstrated His Highness’s limited range.

  ‘But he’s hopeless. It’s the queen who’s got all the moves.’

  Mum demonstrated her capabilities.

  ‘She kicks ass on the straight, on the diagonal, forwards, backwards. Just like real life, right?’

  We high-fived.

  Our first game started a few minutes later. Mum wiped the board with me. No kid gloves. No taking it easy on the beginner. It was a year’s worth of visits before I finally surprised her with a checkmate.

  ‘Good one, Danby!’ she said proudly. ‘I didn’t see that at all.’

  I giggled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Neither did I until a minute ago!’

  She smiled. ‘Well, maybe that’s better. If you thought about it too much I would’ve seen it on your face.’

  Looking at the chessboard now, my next move is suddenly clear. I slide my white queen along the horizontal to the corner square. Mum’s black king is in check. When she moved him, I’d take her queen farther along the same diagonal.

  Mum’s lessons never included the ‘KN4 to KB6’ stuff so I can’t technically describe what I’ve just done. But I remember what that sort of move is called.

  Skewer.

  I turn the word in my head. Look down at my big boots. Think about the joints. The kitchen drawer.

  I laugh uproariously.

  Now I have a plan of attack.

  And it’s so crazy it might just work.

  FOUR

  Taking Mum’s Jeep, Bald Dude’s trail bike or any of the other cars is tempting. I could be out of Shadow Valley in half an hour. But Shadow Valley Road’s switchback turns and sheer drops aren’t the place to give myself driving or riding lessons. Me dying in a ravine won’t help Evan.

  Fortunately my mum the magpie has nearly as many bikes as she does shoes. BMXs, dragsters, road racers, even a unicycle: they’re corralled under an ivy-draped pergola, destined for her market stall after they got new tyres or fresh paint or rust removal. I choose a solid mountain bike that looks like it would’ve sold as is. Thick tyres, straight frame. I ride a few laps of the yard. Gears and brakes all work fine and it’s no problem pedalling in my boots.

  Back in the house, I check my panniers. In one I’ve got the little Santa box, my phone, Mum’s journal, a wallet of photos. In the other is the .38, the flares, first-aid kit and some muesli bars and water.

  I sling the panniers over my shoulder, take a last look around Mum’s house. It looks as happily lived in as it ever did and it’s sweet with warm oven smells. As much as this all sucks, it’s how I want to remember this place. As much as I hate that she’s gone, I’m thankful for Mum and the life she shared with me. Even after death, in her own weird way, she’s showing me the way.

  I’m going to kill Jack. I know why. I know how. Now I have to not think about my plan. If it’s not in my mind it won’t show on my face. Like that first time I beat Mum at chess. All Jack expects to see from me is sadness about Mum and gladness I’m back with him. That’s what I’ll show him.

  I take his letter from the table, carefully fold it and tuck the little envelope inside my bra under my bike shirt. Lachie bobs on top of a stack of bundled flyers in the hallway.

  ‘C’mon,’ I say and he flaps to my shoulder.

  I pause at the front gate,
carefully strap the bike helmet over my stitches. Look up at the swaying Wollemi pines and around at the Kentia palms clacking in the breeze. Wheeling the bike through the front gate, I say a soft goodbye. I’m now a homeless orphan. Is there some place where I’ll be reunited with everyone? If things go badly I’ll know the answer to that question pretty soon. Maybe by the end of the day Jacinta and I will be trading wisecracks about how lame it is being stuck in the afterlife forever. But what if we’re all there and Evan’s left behind with Jack? My heart twists. I can’t let that happen.

  Lachie perches in the centre of the handlebars and I pedal up the rise past the dead houses and past the pile of rocks that’s Mr November’s final resting place.

  From there, I struggle up the steep hill, gasping and sweaty. But I feel great when I make it to the top.

  Pedalling slowly, I try to stay casual, look at and listen to the bush, wonder whether I’ll catch some sign of the Watcher. That is, if he exists in some place other than my paranoia. I don’t see or hear anything human.

  Rakka-rakka-rakk-hawww-hawww-rakka.

  ‘Shit!’ I say, then cackle because it’s just a kookaburra laughing her head off in the trees.

  Lachie’s talons tighten on my shoulder.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘She’s just . . . cachinnating.’

  Cachinnating!

  I grin. I think I’ve used that lovely word correctly. I want to grab my phone and do a quick search so I can pat myself on the back if I’m right. Reality backhands me. My phone’s dead and the internet’s extinct. I rub my temples, remind myself this is all real, that there’s no waking up from this Oz.