‘Miserable without you,’ he said lightly.
‘No, really. What did you do?’
‘Spent some time in the library — I copied a fascinating article about prophylactic antibiotic use for you. Went to Bondi with the gang too. We brought takeaway back here.’ He seemed to notice the dishes for the first time. ‘Sorry about the mess. I meant to clean up before you got here.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said quickly. So that explained the woman’s voice on the phone and the slamming of the door. ‘The gang’ might well have included Barbara, who often tagged along with the med students, even though she’d flunked out. And Alex wouldn’t have mentioned that Barbara was here, because he knew Scarlett was unreasonably jealous of her . . .
No. Not unreasonably. Because Barbara had had sex with Alex, even if he had never loved her as he said he loved Scarlett. As he did love her, because even now he was watching her with a look of happiness that could not be faked.
But Fish would say . . .
Scarlett squashed the thought. Fish was not here and Alex was and his smile could warm the world. And they would eat dinner together and watch All Creatures Great and Small and pick up all the inaccuracies and laugh together as he never laughed with Barbara.
And maybe, if she cuddled close to him on the sofa, tonight, at last, only one bed in the apartment would be occupied.
Chapter 28
Over Half of Australian Households Now Have Colour TV. Which Half Are You In?
Don’t miss out! Sale of colour TVs at Lee’s Emporium this week only. A free set of Gibber’s Creek Centenary tea towels with every one!
FISH
The shots came just as Fish undressed for bed: a short volley of them. She thought it was the TV till she heard Joseph swear and the back door slam, and remembered that the Greats didn’t even have a TV . . .
She ran after him into the darkness, the night air biting at her short-haired scalp, ignoring Gran’s call of ‘Fish!’ If someone was going to shoot Great-Uncle Joseph, then she’d —
Actually she didn’t know what she’d do, she thought as she ran after his shape in the shadows. But neither was she going to do nothing. The sound of a car engine muttered down by the ridges that guarded Moura, then grew more distant as the car reached the road. Great-Uncle Joseph stopped and bent down.
‘What is it?’ Fish cried, staring at a sprawled shape on the ground. Murder, she thought. The killer has come back . . .
‘Dead roo. Go back inside, Fish.’
She didn’t know whether to feel glad it wasn’t a human body, or cry for the roo. ‘Did someone shoot it?’
‘Yes. I’m going to check and see if there are any others. Sometimes shooters just leave them wounded or with joeys alive in the pouch.’ Great-Uncle Joseph reached into his pocket and pulled out a small torch and switched it on.
Fish looked down at the animal sprawled at her feet, the brown back, the paler belly, blood on the small, neat head. The roo’s mouth gaped open, still with grass between its jaws. She had been worried about snakes, spiders, scorpions, but humans were far more deadly. What sort of person could shoot an innocent animal who just ate grass? ‘I’m coming with you.’
Joseph hesitated, then nodded.
The torchlight moved. She moved with it. It flickered, a tiny star, the night eating the small circle of gold before it could spread beyond a small point on the ground. A very small point . . .
‘Do snakes come out at night?’ she asked, trying for a casual tone. Because the human had gone, but the snakes might still be around.
‘Only in mid-summer.’
‘Okay. Great.’ Was February mid-summer? It was the hottest month so, even if it wasn’t officially mid-summer, she suspected that these might be the nights snakes liked best. Lots of mice out to eat . . .
She lifted her feet carefully, glad she hadn’t taken off her flip-flops, scared that she was wearing a nightdress so her ankles were exposed. Then she saw the other roo.
The animal gazed up at her from the tussocks, panting, anguished, still but alive, blood pooling around its throat.
‘Fish, go back to the house.’
‘No.’
‘Do what you are told. Now!’
She moved without consciously deciding to. She had gone perhaps three paces when she heard a thud, a rock, hitting . . . face the truth, she thought to herself . . . a rock hitting the roo’s head, smashing it, killing it, ending its agony, because a wound like that meant nothing but another half-hour perhaps of pain and terror.
A country doctor must learn to deal with death, she thought. Human and kangaroo. She stopped in the darkness and waited for him. But he still stood by the kangaroo, his head down.
‘Great-Uncle Joseph?’
‘I told you to go inside.’ His voice was calm.
‘You had to do it. I understand.’
‘Thank you, Fish.’
She reached for his hand. He said sharply, ‘Don’t! There’s blood on it.’
She took his hand anyway. A second’s hesitation, then he gripped hers.
She said aloud what she had thought before. ‘What sort of person does things like this?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said wearily. ‘All my decades, and I don’t know. My brothers and I used to go rabbiting. We killed roos too, when times were really tough. We ate the meat and sold the skins. I won’t lie to you — we enjoyed the hunt, being one with the bush so we knew where each animal was. I fought in World War II too, and, yes, I killed men then, even though I was a doctor, and mostly, if we were lucky, saved them.’
‘But you never enjoyed the killing,’ she stated.
‘No, Fish love. Every time I pressed the trigger there was the moment of regret. I killed for necessity and never without regret.’
‘Do you think maybe whoever did this killed Merv too?’
‘Unlikely. There’s a big gap between killing for sport and murdering a human.’
‘No, there isn’t,’ she said.
‘You’re right, there isn’t. But most people think there is. I’m glad you’re not most people, Fish.’
And suddenly she was glad as well.
Chapter 29
St Vinnies sale next Saturday morning. All contributions gratefully accepted. Contact Sarah Murphy-Lee on . . .
JED
The shots came as Jed read Mattie The Tale of Peter Rabbit. She stopped mid-sentence.
‘Book!’ demanded Mattie, standing up, holding the bars of the white-painted cot.
‘Here you are, sweetheart.’ Jed handed Mattie the small beige-covered book. Mattie stared at it, tasted it, then looked dispirited that gumming did not produce words.
‘Book!’ she complained.
‘I’ll read it soon. Wait a second.’
‘Book!’
Jed dialled quickly, not triple zero, but the number of the Gibber’s Creek Police Station, which at this hour would be put straight through to the police residence next door. ‘Constable Ryan? I’m sorry to disturb you so late. It’s Jed McAlpine. Someone’s shooting around the house.’ She was glad her voice stayed calm.
‘Some idiot out spotlighting. I’m glad you called me. Stay away from the windows. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
Windows, thought Jed in sudden panic. She ran to Mattie’s room. Maxi scrambled to her feet, scenting her alarm. Jed seized Mattie and ran for the corridor again. Bullets would need to go through two walls to reach them there.
Could bullets go through two walls? Maybe, she thought.
More shots, closer now. She should look out and try to find the spotlighter. No, stupid, she must stay put with Mattie and, thank goodness, Mattie still held the book.
‘Book?’
‘Yes, sweetheart.’ Jed began to read. Maxi barked suddenly. Jed grabbed her collar as the dog tried to run to the door.
‘No! Good dog. Stay. Stay!’ Jed was never sure what commands Matilda had taught her, but at the last word the Doberperson looked at her, considered, then lay at her feet
, growling softly in a continuous rumble.
Jed began to read again, trying to keep her voice calm. But her thoughts were like a creek in flood. Do not let Mattie know you are scared. Do not let her know you are terrified, that you are afraid if you even blink you will see blood, her father’s blood.
More shots. Peter Rabbit, she thought desperately. Peter Rabbit. The farmer tries to shoot Peter Rabbit. Why am I reading my daughter this book . . . ?
‘Book?’ said Mattie delightedly as Jed began the story all over again for the eighth time that night.
An engine. Please, she thought, let it be the police coming, not the shooter going, because if he leaves, he might come back . . .
Yes, the engine noise was coming closer. It stopped. A door slammed. Voices, someone yelling, an answering mutter.
‘Book?’
A knock on the door. ‘Mrs McAlpine, it’s me.’
‘Oh, thank goodness.’ Jed scrambled to her feet, hoisted Mattie onto her hip, then stepped down the corridor, Maxi at her heels. She opened the door.
Constable Ryan stood there, large and comforting. His uniform was rumpled, as if he had pulled it on quickly. Probably in the middle of dinner or having a well-deserved drink after work. The young man beside him . . .
Sixteen, maybe. Too young to have a gun licence. Too young to drive. Jeans, T-shirt, a look of terror, resentment and embarrassment . . .
‘I found him on your property, Mrs McAlpine,’ said William Ryan calmly. Jed noted he did not ask whether they could come in. He turned to the young man. ‘Shaun Promerty, isn’t it?’
The boy gulped and nodded.
‘Right, let’s see then. Got a licence for that thing?’ He pointed at the .22.
‘No. I mean — no, sir.’
‘There’s a two-year prison sentence for having an unlicensed weapon. Driving without a licence, that’s maybe six months, trespass, four years, illegal discharge of a firearm endangering the public, six years in prison.’
‘I didn’t think —’
‘No, you didn’t think,’ said Constable Ryan. ‘One stray bullet and you’d have been a murderer. Did you think of that?’
‘It’s just roos.’
‘It was breaking the law — many laws, sensible laws. Killing protected animals, that’s two years’ jail. It’s against the law to shoot roos unless you have a permit. Do you have a permit?’
A shake of the head.
‘I said — do you have a permit?’
‘No, sir. The rifle’s Granddad’s.’
‘Does he have a permit?’
‘I . . . I don’t know.’
‘Pass me the firearm, please. Thank you. It’s been a while since we had a prisoner in the lock-up. No sheets, I’m afraid, but I can do you toast for breakfast, and cornflakes. Do you like cornflakes?’
A terrified nod.
‘Going to be harder for you when I take you to prison in Sydney. You’ll probably end up in Goulburn after that, as a first offender. They may even let you serve each sentence at the same time, only four years’ jail, out on parole in eighteen months if you behave yourself. Hard to get a job after you’ve served a prison sentence though.’
‘. . . offered an apprenticeship at the butcher’s . . .’ the young man muttered.
Constable Ryan shook his head. ‘Don’t think they’ll keep that for you. Not if you’re in prison.’ He took out his notebook, wrote for half a minute, then looked up. ‘Right, let’s make this formal. Mrs McAlpine, are you pressing charges?’ He looked at her solemnly. One eye closed in a brief wink.
A moment. ‘No,’ said Jed.
‘What?’ Shaun stared at her as if she were an angel descending in a golden halo. ‘Oh, shi— I mean I’m sorry. I mean thank you, Mrs McAlpine, I’m sorry, really sorry. I mean thank you . . .’
An hour later Mattie was in bed, Maxi asleep but alert on her favourite living-room mat. Shaun had been picked up by his furious mother, who had thanked Jed so vociferously that she was embarrassed, and Will Ryan was sitting on the sofa opposite her, a mug of tea in one big hand, a large hunk of orange poppyseed cake in the other.
‘Good cake,’ he said. He’d already eaten two slices of it and the last lamington.
‘I didn’t make it.’
‘I know.’ He grinned. ‘I saw it on the CWA stall. Would have bought it if you hadn’t.’
‘I can’t thank you enough. It was, well, brilliant. He’ll never do that again, plus you’ve made me his saviour, not his enemy.’
‘Just like my dad would have done.’
‘We’re so lucky to have you here.’
‘I’m lucky they posted me here. They did it for Mum’s sake, mostly. Some of Dad’s mates are still in the force.’
‘Did you always want to be a policeman?’
He shrugged. ‘Not much choice. We couldn’t afford uni, even on a scholarship, not back then. Didn’t want an apprenticeship. Thought I might make detective . . .’
‘You still might, after this . . . investigation.’ She found she couldn’t say Merv’s name.
‘I don’t think I’ll apply now.’
‘Because you have a genius for keeping the peace in a country town?’
He laughed. A nice laugh, white teeth, one slightly crooked at the top. ‘No, but thanks for the compliment.’ He didn’t explain his unwillingness to apply for a detective’s position though, Jed noted.
‘What would you have studied, if you could have chosen anything?’
He looked at her seriously. ‘You know what it was like back then, before uni fees were abolished. Even Commonwealth scholarships were means tested. A country cop made too much for me to get an allowance, and too little to keep me in Sydney or Canberra. No point in a kid from a country town even thinking about uni, because there was no way it would happen.’
‘Okay, what did you not really think about?’
‘Architecture.’
It made sense, somehow. Neat lines, solid structures and now he was keeping Gibber’s Creek’s lives straight too.
‘You could still study architecture, now it’s free.’ Was that why he hadn’t married? she thought. Maybe he was trying to save up enough to study now he wouldn’t have to pay fees and would even get a small living allowance. She hadn’t heard any gossip about a girlfriend. Or maybe he was gay. That could explain why he wouldn’t apply to become a detective. No future in the police if anyone suspected he was gay . . .
‘Perhaps,’ he said evasively, then stood. ‘Thank you for the tea and cake.’
‘Thank you for maybe saving my life and Mattie’s and the roos’ . . . Oh, the roos! I didn’t think to look.’
‘I did,’ he said quickly. ‘He didn’t get any.’
Or if he had, Constable Ryan was going to take the carcasses away so she and Mattie didn’t see them tomorrow.
‘You are a very good man,’ she said quietly.
‘All in a night’s work.’ The smile again, and then it vanished. ‘I hope we don’t have to bother you again about the . . . the other stuff.’
‘I hope so too,’ said Jed.
‘Call me any time. I mean that.’
‘I will. Thank you.’
Maxi snuffled around the sofa for crumbs as Jed showed him to the door.
Chapter 30
USA Cuts Aid as Analysts Fear Russian Interests in Afghanistan
The US government has announced that its aid to Afghanistan will be drastically cut. This follows the kidnaping and killing of US Ambassador Adolph Dubs by extremists earlier this month . . .
THE KILLER
The headlights tunnelled between the darkness of the trees. The killer turned them off as the turn-off to the billabong approached. Dribble’s lights were still on, glinting through the trees.
The killer pulled into the track, braked, then sat back, watching Jed’s lights. At last they flicked off. She’d be asleep soon. It would only take a couple of minutes to walk up there, though her dog would bark and if she turned the outside lights on, sh
e might see the car.
Better not risk it.
When had it become a habit, coming out here? The killer wasn’t sure. Even the reason wasn’t clear. To go up to the house? To check for evidence here where the first blow had been struck? Or just because it was impossible to leave behind that moment when Ignatius Mervyn was struck down?
And that was it. That was reason enough to be here. Because here, in the darkness, away from all pretence, this was all the killer had to be.
A murderer.
Chapter 31
For sale: Two-bedroom fibro cottage on half an acre, some work required, chook shed, carport, $10,000.
For sale: Modern brick veneer on school bus run, three bedrooms, sun room, built-in barbecue, double garage, $39,999.
For sale: 100 acres cleared and fenced, two spring-fed dams, $19,999.
JED
She woke at . . . Jed turned to look at the clock by the bed. Five forty-nine am. And it hadn’t been Mattie’s cry that woke her, or a possum jumping on the roof or even the dingo’s call. Just terror. Terror had been her companion for so long she needed no time to recognise it.
Her earliest memory, hiding from Mum in the broom cupboard, as she prowled, drunk and angry, about the house. The terror of that man touching her, just conscious enough to know he was, but not able to move away from him. Her last memory of her father, not quite drunk but not quite sober either, yelling, ‘Go back to bed, girl!’ when she’d crept out to investigate the laughter of his friends.
She was pretty sure her father had loved her, when he remembered or she wasn’t too much of a nuisance, just as she’d always known her mother hated her for trapping her in the role of ‘mum’, though there may have been a kind of love there, somewhere, too. Sometimes. Maybe. But even her father had preferred not to be bothered by her. No other girl at school had never had a parent at Speech Night, or even in the audience of school plays in which she’d starred, debates . . .
Fish had brought her back from the land of memory in the daytime. But at night . . .
The Last Dingo Summer Page 16