by S. J. Morgan
I could see Mum’s shoulders heaving as we prepared ourselves for the final task.
‘This isn’t right!’ she said, turning to us. ‘Whatever he’s done, this is a person, a human being.’
‘We didn’t choose this, Annie,’ Dad said. ‘He did.’ He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘You go and wait by the van, keep a lookout. Make sure the map’s there.’
She nodded and turned away. That sight of her, hunched and alone, walking into the pitch black was all the hurry-up I needed.
I took the top of the body with Dad; Daniella had the feet. For a skinny guy, Sindy’s old man was far heavier than I’d have expected, and it took us a few moments to secure our grip. Once we had, we followed the track down to the river. None of us spoke. We picked our way carefully to the water, struggling to keep our footing as we grappled with our load. We placed him beside the water’s edge, gathering ourselves.
‘I’ll get Sindy’s case,’ Daniella said. ‘We can use it to weigh him down. I hope it’s heavy enough.’
I looked at her. ‘Bodies sink, don’t they?’
‘Depends,’ she said, turning to go back up the slope, ‘on relative density.’
Even when it came to dead bodies, turned out Daniella was way smarter than me.
She reappeared a few moments later, heaving the case to the water’s edge. ‘I brought the tool bag from the van as well,’ she said. ‘It’s got a tow strap we can use.’
She unzipped the suitcase and flung open the lid. Sindy’s comics, her plastic hairbrush and that instant camera were on top. Apart from a few bits of clothing, there wasn’t much else in it. The sight of her belongings gave me a jolt, and I saw Dad pause too as he looked down at what was left of her. I could sense something in his hesitation: the realisation that although it was Sindy’s dad we were disposing of, it was Sindy herself who we’d lost.
Dad tossed the knife, the gun and the stained clothing inside. He added the bag of tools and slammed the lid. He zipped it most of the way, keeping just enough open to let the water in, then Daniella handed him the tow strap.
With Sindy’s case tied to the body, it was a heavy, awkward operation, getting everything into the water. The final entry was a three-way hefty shove rather than a gentle placement. There was none of the clean efficiency that we’d aimed for – this was as makeshift, rough and dirty as it could get.
No sooner had we shunted him from the edge than his body tipped briefly – almost majestically – before sinking below the surface. He was swallowed in one greedy gulp, destined for a murky descent to his very own patch of underworld.
I’m still holding Daniella’s fingers beneath the table as she sits opposite me, studying the menu. When she’s finished, she takes over stroking duties and she traces the scar on top of my hand from that thin gold chain. The skin is still raw and painful – as is the gash on my cheek – but I won’t have treatment: all wounds heal eventually, or so they tell me.
It isn’t until the food is on the table, and I’ve had a couple of beers that I begin to unclench. Apparently, my body’s hard-wired to look for danger signs now; it’s my own internal security system. I just need to learn how to switch it off – or at least put it on pause – because I’m overloaded with fear. I see a police uniform and I’m filled with as much panic as if it was an Apaches insignia. Enemies are everywhere.
At least being hidden away has given us breathing space; time to think. Our lives feel temporary, and they’re probably always going to feel temporary because we’ll have to keep moving. We can never get complacent. Apaches are spread around the world like a pandemic, and they’ll bide their time for as long as they need to. Which means we have to keep one step ahead: our life-plan should be that we never plan. Our movements will have to be as surprising to us as they would be to them. Predictability would be our undoing.
For now, though, we sit with a view to the outside world and we discuss how Bill will be looking after the house. We talk about football, about food, about all the things that don’t matter.
Then the phone rings, shrill, on the counter and, thanks to Minto, it sets my Pavlovian nerves a-jangle.
I unconsciously tune into the waiter’s conversation. ‘For nine o’ clock, Mr Haiden? Four people? Certainly.’
The back of my neck begins to prickle; it’s suddenly moist with sweat and the heat reaches around my throat.
‘Did you hear that?’ I say, halting the conversation between Daniella and Mum. They both look at me as I lean towards them. ‘They booked a table for someone called Haiden!’
Mum and Daniella stare back blankly and it’s all I can do not to grab one of them by the throat.
‘Hai-den. That was the other name in Mt Isa,’ I say, tripping over my words. I stab at the table as I speak, trying to drum into them the significance. ‘The other one was Colbeck, right? And now this: the exact two names I was trying to find.’
There’s still no eureka in their eyes and Dad joins them in their little trifecta of confusion.
I speak to them slowly. I’m blinking, shaking, almost in tears. ‘Don’t you get it? They know we’re here!’
None of them replies, and I watch as they drop their gaze from me and exchange glances with each other instead.
‘Alec, the name the waiter said was Clayton,’ Daniella tells me. ‘Not Haiden.’
Mum nods. ‘It was Clayton I heard too.’
My heart is pounding and I’m breathing fast. My whole body is soaking. My legs feel as if they’re about to uncoil and spring into action without my say-so.
The psychologist warned me this could happen too.
‘Alec, are you okay?’ Daniella says.
‘You all heard the Colbeck name?’ I snap. ‘You heard that.’
‘So? I’ve got a friend called Liz Colbeck.’ Mum puts a hand on mine. ‘It’s a common enough name, love.’
‘Liz Colbeck? Since when?’ My mind is racing: did Sindy choose a name that was associated with us? Did she already know? Which came first?
It’s all I can do to stay in my seat. My knees are jiggling, trembling, waiting to push against the starters’ gates. I can’t keep still; I’m sitting here but every part of me is moving.
‘Alexander, calm down,’ Mum whispers, looking at me.
‘Did you tell Sindy about that friend? That…Liz?’ I say. ‘Is that why she chose the Colbeck name? Did she get it from us in the first place?’
I don’t know who I’m accusing of what, but I’m certain there’s a link in all this. Everything’s connected but I don’t know how. We think we’re acting freely but who knows what’s going on beneath the surface; what Sindy’s mob are finding out about us, what information they’re skimming.
‘Maybe we should go,’ Daniella says, looking at me. She’s about to get to her feet.
People are watching us from other tables, seeing what these oddballs are up to. Even the guy on the coffee machine is standing with his jug mid-air. I’ve been much louder than I’d realised.
I swallow. Take in a deep breath, just as I’ve been taught. Make my way down those imaginary steps, one by one. Breathe, step, pause; breathe, step, pause. I close my eyes. Breathe in, blow out. Nice and slow. My heart rate starts to calm. My neck tingles as the sweat cools.
‘Sorry,’ I say. I pick up my beer and roll the bottle against my forehead. ‘It’s just…’
‘The demons,’ Dad says, gently.
When I look back at him, I can see he has them too.
I ease down in my chair, eat my food, listen to the chatter around me. Outwardly, I’m calm. But inside, I’m still wired and every time that fucking phone rings, I expect to hear of a Mr Black or a Mr Stobes or some other Godforsaken name I never want to hear again.
I get through it, though. I keep my head down, I fork food into my mouth, smile in the right places.
Finally, it’s almost over.
Beside me, Dad studies the bill, his finger tracing down each item. ‘Your waitress today was Gina,’ it says, and that in
visible hand around my throat squeezes tighter.
Mum and Daniella pick up their bags from the floor and I can’t wait to leave.
I’m about to stand when I hear music outside: the doof-doof-doof of a car stereo, its bass up too high. The sound is distorted, and I can’t pick out the tune.
It’s a slow, languorous process, my mind filtering that particular mix of sounds. I mentally turn down the bass so I can focus on the treble; then I find the riff. And it’s that crazy-maniacal riff, the melody, the angry beat, that snarling voice. It sounds so foreign here, so out of place and I try to grasp why.
And then the song emerges fully formed and it’s like I’ve spotted the shape of the devil in the clouds. ‘Ace of Spades’ – it pumps out, thick, toxic, polluting the air.
My gaze pins itself to the window like it’s been stuck there with chewing gum.
Right outside, the car is waiting at the lights, its passenger window down despite the cold.
A girl in the front seat is looking straight ahead; her hair tucked into a black bandana. She’s young, pretty; could be anyone.
But that profile.
Daniella and Mum turn in their seats to see what I’m staring at. ‘It’s just a car, Alec. Just a random girl in a car.’
And, yes of course, it is. I need to accept it: it’s just a random girl.
But then, as the car peels away, the girl swivels towards us and her lips ease into a smile. She lifts a hand to her bandana, a big-ass watch oversized on her tiny, twig-like wrist.
Acknowledgements
It’s a pretty magical experience, having the stories and characters you’ve dreamt up in your head made ‘real’ in book form. In my case it’s a magic created by MidnightSun Publishing, and I owe them an enormous debt of gratitude. To Director, Anna Solding, thank you for all your wise counsel, for your encouragement, your level-headedness and for your vision. I’m truly thankful and humbled that my manuscripts were plucked from the pile by you.
My thanks also go to the whole team at MidnightSun Publishing, especially to Kim Lock for the awesome cover which I never tire of seeing, and to Zena Shapter, layout designer extraordinaire who, I’ve happily discovered, loves to talk chocolate as much as I do. Thanks to all of you for turning my words into something real and beautiful.
South Australia is brimming with creative talent, and I have been blown away by the welcome and support I’ve received from the wonderful ‘book people’ I’ve met along the way. I want to give a special shout-out to my lovely debut author buddies, Poppy Nwosu and Kristy Fairlamb, for their friendship and support. I’m so glad we found each other to share this strange and wonderful journey.
I probably wouldn’t be a writer if I hadn’t been an avid reader first, and for that I have my parents to thank. Being read to as a child, being taken to libraries, having books as gifts, and being given ‘incentives’ for learning and reciting poetry – all these things gave me a love of the written word. I wish my dad was here to see where those poetry-bribes eventually led, but hopefully in some distant place, he’ll have his feet up with his very own copies of Heaven Sent and Hide and feel proud. And to my Mum, thanks for encouraging me to always look up the words I didn’t understand and for surrounding my childhood (and adulthood!) with all those dictionaries.
To all my family and friends, near and far, who continue to cheer me on and celebrate my successes, a heartfelt thank you: your words of encouragement and your enthusiasm honestly spur me on. A spccial shout-out to my friend and ‘tour manager’, Julie Astley-Jones who has kept a book-flag flying for me ever since I first put pen to paper.
Thanks also to Laurinda Luffman and to Julia Stiles who read very early drafts of Hide and gave me valuable feedback which helped to shape the story. A massive thank you, too, to my other-side-of-the-world writing buddy and wonderful friend, Claire Whatley, who has probably read as many versions of Hide as I have. Claire, I hope you’ll love the finished version and that you can bear to have ‘one more wafer-thin read’!
Finally, to my Wil-a-gang, my home-crew – some of whom aren’t even at home now (that’s right, I’m looking at you, Phoebe). Home or away, they continue to encourage, motivate and inspire me. They make me laugh, send me GIFs, keep me grounded and make sure I never take myself too seriously. They are my most fervent and loyal band of cheerleaders. Words would be gobbledy-gook without them. And to Robbi – thank you for all the football-not-soccer advice and for reminding me there are no sparkling waters in Cardiff. Robbi is my personal superhero and, while I get to live my dream every day, he quietly goes about making it all possible. And he does it with generosity, enthusiasm, care and love. He is, and always will be, my dear one.
About the Author
S.J. Morgan grew up in the UK and arrived in Australia many years ago, via a twelve-month round-the-world air ticket. In her former life she was an Occupational Therapist, but she now writes full-time. She writes across several genres and has won prizes for short fiction as well as an ASA mentorship for her children’s writing.
In 2018, her debut YA novel, Heaven Sent was published by MidnightSun Publishing. Hide is her first adult novel. She lives in the Adelaide Hills with her family and two very slovenly greyhounds.
You can find more information at www.sjmorgan.com.au
MidnightSun Publishing
We are a small, independent publisher based in Adelaide, South Australia. Since publishing our first novel, Anna Solding’s The Hum of Concrete in 2012, MidnightSun has gone from strength to strength.
We create books that are beautifully produced, unusual, sexy, funny and poignant. Books that challenge, excite, enrage and overwhelm. When readers tell us they have lost themselves in our stories, we rejoice in a job well done.
MidnightSun Publishing aims to reach new readers every year by consistently publishing excellent books. Welcome to the family!
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