When Marcus Anderson grabs me, I scream.
Screaming is okay, y’know. Screaming is a perfectly acceptable response to the last four hours of nightmare.
If you’re being attacked, scream, Dad used to say. There’s nothing wrong with screaming. It disorients your attacker and lets people know something bad is happening.
Something bad is happening. I scream as Harris cries out, as Ando yanks me towards him and pushes Harris back. I scream as the big boss, Leon, winces and gives the gun back to his minder. I keep screaming until Ando slaps me.
But don’t waste your energy, either, Dad says in my head. If screaming doesn’t bring help, use your strength.
I fling my head back around and bite Ando’s hand. Blood bursts in my mouth.
‘Fucking bitch!’ he yells. He shakes me off and I go sprawling.
Harris has turned, all the bruises standing out from his golden paleness, every muscle in his body tense as he faces off with Leon. ‘You’re trusting the wrong person. Ando was in Tulane Road –’
He’s cut off when Ando smashes a punch into his face. Harris staggers, drops.
‘Shut your fucking mouth!’ Ando bellows. He punches Harris again – I scramble onto all fours as I hear Harris groan. Ando turns to Leon. ‘He’s a fucking liar. And he’s desperate. He’d say anything –’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Leon says tonelessly. ‘All this fuss over a piece of skirt.’ But he’s looking at Ando in a different way as he lights a cigarette. He blows smoke at the roof of the shed. ‘When you get to Melbourne, disappear for a while. I’ll pay you now so there’s no issues. Put them all in the van. No –’ He holds up a hand as Ando opens his mouth. ‘Whatever happens at the saltworks is up to you. But she rides in the van.’
It’s the minder who takes us outside – me first, then Harris, still half-dazed. When I stumble out of the shed, the night is so black it’s like I’ve had my eyes cut out. The van is a white delivery unit with double doors. There’s a row of stainless steel shelving inside on the right, and the only place to sit is on the cold metal floor. Leon’s minder dumps the rolled-up tarp with Snowie’s body near the door of the van. Then the doors close and we’re lost in darkness.
‘Amie?’
I think I’m in shock. I can’t say anything for a second. Something brushes my hand and I jump.
‘Amie, it’s me. It’s okay, it’s me.’ Harris’s voice sounds thick and rumbling. There’s movement in the darkness. Warm hands cover mine, I’m being pulled against a warm chest, warm arms come down around me. ‘I got you,’ he croons. ‘It’s okay, I got you.’
A weird high-pitched noise comes out of my throat and is swallowed up by the sound of the van’s engine chugging to life. The van vibrates around us. I’m vibrating in Harris’s arms, shaking so much I think I’m going to be sick. I cough and cry and wipe my mouth against the fabric of his T-shirt, trying to get rid of the taste of Marcus Anderson’s blood.
‘Oh god. Oh Jesus.’ I keep my eyes closed, because the blackness behind my eyelids is somehow better than the blackness inside the van. There’s a series of jolts as the van starts to move. ‘Ando’s going to…he said he’s –’
‘That,’ Harris states, ‘is never gonna happen.’
A shudder runs through my whole body.
‘Come on, babe,’ Harris whispers. ‘Come on. We’ll fight together.’
‘I don’t know why I’m crying,’ I gasp out. ‘You’re the one who got tortured. Oh god, Harris, you told me…you told me about your world, and I thought I knew, but I… Oh Jesus –’
‘Shh,’ Harris says. He hugs me close.
‘How did you handle all this?’ I whisper. ‘Every single day –’
‘You,’ he says simply. ‘I had you.’
I curl in his arms, press my face into his neck. I want to kiss him, but I know his mouth is sore from the way he’s talking. Now I want a light in here so I can see what’s been done to him, help if I can.
‘I have to stop crying.’ I dash my face against my tied hands. ‘We don’t have time for that. We have to get out of here. And I’m bloody sick of this baling twine.’
Harris snorts. ‘Now you mention it…’
I duck under where I think his arms are, manage to bump my nose on his elbow. ‘Shit. Ow. We need a light. Is there a light in here? Do you have matches?’
‘Light’s busted. I saw that when Mick put me in. And Ando turned out my pockets,’ Harris admits. ‘I got nothing.’
I sigh with frustration. ‘Right. Well, this is the first time I’ve ever wished I was a smoker.’
Harris’s voice changes. ‘Snowie was a smoker.’
We both realise what that means at the same time.
‘Oh yuck,’ I say, as Harris says, ‘Shit. Great.’
But there’s nothing for it but to do it. We both fumble our way down towards the rolled-up tarp. I’m glad no one can see the expression on my face. When I feel the plastic weave with the squishy weight inside, I jerk back automatically.
‘Okay. Right.’ The words are more for my own benefit. ‘I’ve handled this before, at the hospital.’
‘Just not so messy,’ Harris says.
‘Not so messy, no.’
I hear a rustle as Harris moves. We need this. And if Harris can be brave, so can I. Wriggling my wrists in their bindings, I ease my hands over the crinkling plastic of the tarp, trying to orient myself. It’s one of the most bizarre and macabre things I’ve ever done.
‘Here’s the edge,’ Harris says.
‘I’ve got an edge, too.’ I feel wetness, and hair. I recoil with a gasp. ‘Oh god, I think this is his head.’
‘Yep, I’ve got his feet,’ Harris says. ‘I’ll do it – it’s easier from this end. Just hold him steady.’
Strange crackling sounds of burrowing come from where Harris’s voice was before. The van goes over a series of bumps in the road. Harris swears, I hear scrabbling, and then:
‘I’ve got it.’ Harris flicks the lighter; it sparks once, twice, then catches, holds.
That meagre light makes everything seem better and worse. Harris’s face is a mess. He’s all blood, bruises and shadows. But he’s smiling.
‘Something to light,’ I say, fast realising the lighter won’t last. ‘Damnit. Here.’
It’s a piece of paper from my jeans pocket: a shopping list from the day before the wedding. The scribbled words go up with a flare. I scan quickly for something else to burn.
Two empty cardboard boxes are stacked into each other on the bottom shelf. I break off pieces of cardboard for fuel, feed the flames carefully. I’m keeping the small light going on the bottom shelf, but the van keeps moving, and the cardboard wants to scoot around. Finally, Harris thinks of a slightly gruesome solution: using Snowie’s shoe.
He eyes the shoe. ‘Goddamn Snowie. He was working to get money for his dad to keep the pub going.’ His mouth twists. I think he’s trying not to think about it.
We burn our baling twine off: it snaps at the weakest point once touched to the flame. Harris’s wrists are bloody, but there’s nothing we can do.
‘Leon said the saltworks.’ I dab at Harris’s wrists with my shirt-tail. ‘That’s about an hour away. But I’ve got no idea of the time.’
‘Me neither.’ Harris sinks back against the inside wall of the van. ‘No phones.’
‘No phones,’ I agree. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Sit for a minute.’ He rubs through his hair. ‘My brain’s not catching up yet. I feel like I’m running blindfolded.’
I slip another curl of cardboard into the shoe and shuffle in beside him. ‘What do we know?’
‘Ando did Tulane Road,’ he says without preamble.
‘What?’
‘I’m sure of it.’ He nods. ‘All these little things I remembered… Then he as good as confessed, just before we went into the shed. That scummy bastard – he’s probably got an iron in the fire with one of the other bosses, offered to get the samples. The cash would’ve been a bonus, or maybe his fee. He killed all those people… I’m amazed he didn’t just kill me when he and Snowie first caught me.’
‘He wanted to make himself look good,’ I say, piecing it together. ‘To show Leon he figured out what you were doing. Making Snowie look bad was a useful side-effect.’
‘He encouraged Snowie to wait before bringing me in. And then to take us both to Leon.’ Harris shakes his head at the villainy of it. ‘He knew Snowie would cop it.’
‘And Ando just likes hurting people,’ I remind him.
‘Yeah. We’ve always kinda hated each other’s guts. Getting to lay into me was an added plus.’
I touch his bruised jaw carefully. ‘When we get out…’
‘When we get out,’ he repeats, with emphasis. ‘First, we need to think.’
‘Reggie has my phone. He should’ve called Dad. I already texted Dad about trying to find you, just before Ando grabbed me. Help should be coming.’
‘But they don’t know where we are. That we’re travelling. We can’t rely on them to be there when the doors open at the saltworks.’ He casts around. ‘We need to check in here, see if there’s a way out.’
But there’s nothing. There’s no window, just a tiny vent high in the roof, and the doors are firmly locked. All the seams are tight. How would we prise anything open anyway? The shelving is screwed down, and the cardboard boxes are the only things around.
‘Should we yell?’ I suggest. ‘Bang on the walls? Let people outside know we’re here?’
‘I dunno.’ Harris grimaces. ‘Do we wanna get shot in the face? The van-man looked pretty serious that time I met him.’
‘Then…what? We just sit and wait?’ The idea is eating me up. Every minute we spend in here brings us closer to the saltworks, and Marcus Anderson’s cold eyes.
Harris looks grim. ‘I’m gonna check Snowie’s pockets again.’
We find a switchblade, a packet of Marlboro Lights (Harris shakes his head. ‘Low tar. Lotta good that did him.’) and some loose cash. Nothing else useful.
‘The knife is something,’ I say.
‘Ando will have something worse.’ Harris eases back against the wall again. He’s started shivering.
I take off my jacket, put it around him, snuggle against his chest. I’m thirsty now, which means Harris must be feeling it more.
‘How’s your nanna?’ he says softly. ‘She still making plans for that dinner?’
I make a tired smile. ‘She’s great. I told her about you – I had to tell her. She’s probably back at the house, coordinating with Mildura CIU and making up a seven-course menu.’
He laughs but it sounds hoarse.
I tuck another slip of cardboard into the shoe beside us. ‘Apparently my auntie’s plan to have me stay on as Nani’s carer was organised without consulting her. She said she doesn’t want me to stay. She wants me to live my own life instead.’
‘Is that what you wanna do?’
‘Yes.’ I say it with conviction. ‘If we somehow manage to get out of this, I want to live. Properly, I mean. I booked an interview for the residency. I want to make my own choices and figure out the things that make me happy.’
‘That sounds good.’ Harris’s voice is muted. When I look up I see his eyes dipping closed.
‘Harris.’ I shake his arm. ‘Harris, don’t pass out me. No sleeping until we get you to hospital.’
‘Okay,’ he slurs.
‘Harris… You make me happy.’
I lift my head and kiss him gently. Kiss the side of his smile, the edge of his bruised cheek, the soft lobe of his ear. Kiss the blood-stained curve of his chin, the blue thumbprints on his neck… All the marked and unmarked places of him. By the time I return to his mouth, his lips are searching for mine.
‘I can’t believe you came for me,’ he whispers.
‘Any time you want me or need me,’ I say. ‘For any reason. I’m here. I’m yours. Just call for me…’
We kiss for a long time then. That seems to wake him up.
Which I think might be a good thing. The van is travelling smoothly now, no stop-starting for traffic lights or corner turns. This is the road from Mildura to Ouyen – the road home.
The road to the saltworks.
‘We have the knife,’ Harris says. ‘And we can build up the fire.’
‘We have a dead body,’ I realise suddenly. ‘What if we shove that out when the doors first open?’
As the van growls around us, we formulate a plan. There’s a turn, a collection of bumps, the sound of tyres on gravel. Harris kisses me swiftly, moves into position. I add cardboard to our fire until the shoe looks ready to catch alight.
The van slows, trundles forward, stops. Footsteps rush outside.
Now I let the sight of the fire, the memory of kissing Harris, fill me up. I become red as blood, black as a moonless night. The door unlocks, my whole body tenses to spring, my throat roils with a berserker scream –
‘Amie! Amie, it’s me! God almighty – lower your weapons!’
Flashlight beams nail into my eyes, then one of the black patches in my vision moves, coalesces: a stocky figure climbs onto the back step of the van.
‘Amie, please god, love, tell me you’re all right,’ my dad says, and Harris realises just in time. Dad’s flashlight swings to take him in. ‘Harris, bloody hell –’
‘Dad?’ I whisper, then my throat works. ‘Dada –’
My father steps into the van fully. I dump my fiery shoe, and Dad and I collide in a hug, like we’re competing to see who can squeeze each other tightest. His chest heaves, and he’s shaking.
‘Ah god…ah Jesus…’ He turns to see Harris. ‘Shit, Harris, you look like hell. Come outta here, you two, come on now…’
He pulls me gently towards the doors of the van, grabs Harris by the arm to keep him directed. There are about half a dozen uniformed police and a couple of plain-clothes CIU guys milling about out here, and once we’re out, the first thing they do is secure the van as a crime scene.
Dad is still shaking. I clutch his arm. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m okay. Are you okay? Are you sure?’ He takes a big breath and lets it out. ‘Fucking hell, Amita. That took about ten years off my life.’
The energy is slowly fading from my body. I’m weirdly aware of colours – the pink dirt underfoot in the yellow glow of police car headlights, the strobing reds and blues. The white-T-shirted figure of Steph standing to one side, a set of keys in her hand.
She catches Harris’s eye. ‘Talk about fucking lucky. I had no idea you were in the back of my van until Reggie called me on Amie’s phone.’
A police officer steps beside her. ‘We’ll need to take those keys, miss.’
‘You can have ’em,’ Steph says as she hands them over. She looks at my dad. ‘So are we square?’
‘We’re square,’ Dad says. ‘Give your statement, then you’re free to go. Appreciate the help.’ He turns to me. ‘That’s how we got your position. Steph told Reggie which way you were travelling, and he relayed it to me. We knew you were stopping here.’
‘There’s drugs somewhere in that van,’ I say dazedly.
‘I dunno nothing about that,’ Steph says, raising her hands.
‘I’m sure you don’t,’ Dad says in the conciliatory tone he takes with people he knows are lying. ‘After you’ve spoken to Constable Tulley, you can get a ride anywhere you need to go.’
‘You’re a driver,’ Harris says to Steph, like he’s only just remembered. ‘I didn’t see who was at the wheel when we were loaded into the van, I didn’t even think…’
‘That’s understandable.’ Steph shrugs. ‘Although I reckon I might be looking for a new line of employment.’
‘Wise choice,’ Dad says.
My breathing is still fast and high. ‘But – Ando. Where’s Ando? He was going to be here, he was –’
Harris puts an arm around my waist. ‘I think he might have wised up, too.’
He nods to where the Land Cruiser sits, gargantuan in its spot-lit position a dozen steps away. Police are holding a guy near the bonnet, but it’s not the tall muscle-bound figure I’m expecting to see. This guy is shorter, with a flat-top haircut and strident voice.
‘I keep tellin’ ya, I don’t know! He just told me to catch up at the corner of Fourteenth Street –’
‘Barry.’ Harris looks at Dad. ‘How was he driving the Land Cruiser?
‘Anderson called him, apparently, to do a car swap just before you left Mildura,’ Dad says.
‘Ando knew.’ I turn to Harris. ‘He must have realised Leon didn’t trust him after what you said about Tulane Road.’
‘So he cut loose.’ Harris nods. ‘Ando’s evil, but he’s not stupid.’
‘Are you saying Marcus Anderson was involved in the Mildura shootings?’ Dad’s forehead lines meet in the middle. ‘Then finding him’s just become more urgent. Once we get the plate number we can track Barry’s car to Melbourne –’
‘Ando’ll ditch that car fast,’ Harris says. ‘And he could just as easily have headed to Adelaide, or north to Sydney.’
‘I’ve gotta go talk to Murphy,’ Dad says, stepping free before swinging back to me. ‘Are you all right for a minute, love? It’s going to be very complicated here, but once I’ve done this I can take you home.’
‘I’m good,’ I say, tucking myself into Harris’s chest. ‘We’ll wait for you.’
‘Right.’ Dad’s glance takes in the way Harris and I are hugging. His eyebrows lift and he snorts. ‘Okay, fair enough. Gimme a sec. Go over to the paramedics and get them to check you out – especially you, Harris.’
He walks off and I feel Harris’s diaphragm rumble with a suppressed laugh. When I look up, he’s grinning. ‘Well, that was easier than I thought it’d be.’
I grin back, squeeze his waist gently. ‘Told you.’
It takes more than a sec, but within half an hour – super-fast, for police time – Harris and I are loaded into the back of Dad’s squaddie. The ambulance officer wasn’t excited about the idea of us taking Harris home instead of to hospital. We reassured her it would only be for a short time, so we can give our statements. I know Dad has arranged this so Harris and I can have a period of calm before the medical examinations and the questioning and the evidence-gathering process begins, and I’m grateful.
Jared Capshaw rides shotgun with Dad driving; there needs to be at least one other officer present, considering Dad and I are related. Jared is a skinny freakishly-tall guy with a head of bright orange hair. He has to scrunch his legs up to fit in the front passenger seat. The squaddie is warm inside, and it feels comfortable – I’ve seen this car being tuned out the back of our house more times than I can count – but I can tell Harris isn’t wild about riding in the back behind the mesh grille.
‘Yeah, this is a little too familiar, if you know what I mean.’ He holds a wrapped icepack to his cheek, wincing.
I take the icepack from him, re-wrap and re-position it. ‘It’s only for the trip to Walpeup. Murphy said he’s going to try to find the Pitbull once they’ve found Leon.’
‘They had a lead on the Volvo out of Dareton,’ Dad says over his shoulder. ‘But Leon’s no dumber than Marcus Anderson. He’s probably got himself a new set of wheels by now.’
‘Murphy said they’re keeping an eye on light aircraft, too,’ Jared says. ‘He’s checking the airfield near Wentworth. Harris, are you okay, mate?’
‘I’m real tired, hey, but I’m okay,’ Harris says, leaning against my shoulder.
Jared looks between me and Harris like Dad did earlier. Much eyebrow-waggling ensues. I’m pretty sure the local gossip mill will get mileage out of this for years to come.
Then I look out the windscreen and – oh, my house! My sweet plain house… It seems to shine in the squad car headlights, but that could be because my eyes are watering. Dad eases the car onto the grass near the fence, pulls the handbrake and leaves the headlights on.
He angles himself to talk. ‘We’ve only got a little while, but you can come in and rest. Murphy’s said he’s sending a car over for extra security.’
That’s when I realise Jared isn’t just here to supervise me and Harris giving statements. Leon’s reach is long, and we’re witnesses. Until CIU get a bead on Leon and Ando, Harris and I are basically under police protection.
‘You’d better let us out then.’ I nod at the doors. The rear passenger doors in the squaddie don’t have handles.
‘Oh, yeah, sorry,’ Jared says. ‘I’ll do it.’
He jumps out his side, closest to the house, probably relieved for the extra leg room.
‘We have to call Nani,’ I say, remembering suddenly. ‘Dad, she knows about Harris, and she’ll be worrying about us.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ Dad says. ‘You’ll probably need to –’
The explosive crack of a gunshot at close range makes me jump, cry out. Jared Capshaw’s body slams into the passenger window on my side of the car – I gasp as he tumbles to the ground.
‘Shit.’ Harris has already half-climbed over me, putting his body nearer the house – nearer the gun-shot side – than mine. I scream as the front passenger window shatters, and another shot fractures the night.
Then Dad is yelling, ‘Out! Get outta the car!’ and Harris is yelling, ‘We can’t get out until you let us out!’ and I turn my head to see…
In the glancing light of the headlamps, Marcus Anderson stands to the right of my house, partially concealed behind the Holden carcass near the fence. He’s aiming a pistol over the roof of the old car, aiming through the windscreen of the squaddie –
Aiming for my father.
‘Dad, get down!’ I scream, then the gun goes off, and everything gets jumbled around.
Dad drops out of the car through the open driver’s door with a garbled curse, onto the grass and dirt. My ears ring with the report of the shot. Harris has scrambled back over me to hammer on the rear passenger window, until Dad reaches over and something clicks. The door opens and Harris and I both roll out of the death-trap seat, into dark air and gunshot claps that rend the fabric of time and space.
‘Amie –’ Dad starts.
‘Are you hit?’ I yell, ducking as another shot thonks into the side of the squaddie. ‘Dad –’
He shakes his head, drawing his sidearm. ‘No, but Jared –’
‘I’ll get him, if you’ll cover me,’ Harris says. ‘Have you got another weapon in the car?’
‘Only the shotgun.’
Two more claps of gunfire – the squaddie rocks a little with the last one. Hunkered in the dust, we hear Ando’s scream of rage.
‘That’ll do,’ Harris says grimly.
‘Can you shoot?’ Dad asks, before dismissing his own question with a swift shake of his head. ‘What am I saying, I saw you knocking holes in speed signs when you were twelve.’
‘Gimme the shotgun,’ Harris says.
‘I didn’t hear you say that.’ Dad scrabbles down low and pulls the shottie out of the front passenger footwell, passes Harris a handful of cartridges. ‘And you didn’t hear me telling you to arm yourself.’
‘Got it.’ Harris nods, checks the action of the gun as he squats with his back pressed to the car. ‘What about Amie?’
‘Jared’s pistol.’ My voice shakes, but I ignore it. ‘Get him back here first.’
Dad flips the safety off his sidearm. ‘How many rounds does Anderson have?’
‘It’s a Bersa,’ Harris says. ‘Fourteen in the clip, one in the chamber. He’ll have another magazine, though.’
‘Right. Harris, are you ready? Stay low.’
‘I’m low, I’m low,’ Harris says fervently, squeezing my panic-clenched fist before ducking to the left of the side we’re on.
Dad squiggles over the driver’s seat and the transmission to aim out the shattered front passenger window. ‘Drop your weapon, Marcus!’ he shouts. ‘Don’t make me shoot you!’
Another shot zings across the hood of the squaddie.
Dad returns fire, and there’s another scream from Ando. I want to plug my hands over my eyes and ears, but I can’t do that because Harris is crawling back, tugging and dragging Jared Capshaw’s long limp body with him. I stay down as I help pull Jared to relative safety, then I’m plunging into action, yanking Jared’s shirt aside to see –
‘Flak vest!’ I could cheer. ‘Oh, thank god.’
Dad backs out of the squaddie to see. ‘Jared, good man. Now if we could get this bastard to stop –’
There’s a crack, and Dad spins, falls into dirt and shadow.
‘DAD!’ I shriek, lunge for him as he groans.
Harris stands smoothly, bringing the shotgun to his shoulder over the car roof. ‘Ando, if you fire again, I’m gonna drop you.’
‘Just shoot him!’ Dad hisses, his eyes screwing up as I apply pressure to the black-red at his shoulder.
‘FUCK. YOU.’ Ando bellows. He punctuates each word with a shot.
Harris doesn’t even flinch.
‘Marcus.’ He says it softly, but his voice carries in the preternatural quiet between shotbursts. ‘This isn’t knock-knock at the pub, mate. This is real.’
‘Don’t you think I know that?’ Ando yells, his words choked. Through the shattered window, I see him stagger away from the Holden. His face is tear-streaked, almost human-looking. ‘You fucking snake, Harris. You fucking double-crossing bastard –’
‘Don’t make me do this,’ Harris says. ‘C’mon, Marcus. Snowie was your mate –’
‘Fucking Snowie!’ Ando’s laugh is gasping, desperate. ‘And his fucking jokes! D’you remember?’ He raises his arm.
‘Marcus, don’t.’ Harris braces the shotgun. He’s fully exposed now, over the boot of the squaddie.
‘What’s a redneck’s last words, Harris?’ Ando looks and sounds like he’s in the grip of some hysteria. ‘What’s a redneck’s last words?’
The gun in his hand goes off. I flinch hard as the boom of Harris’s shotgun explodes into the night, as Marcus Anderson is thrown back like he’s been punched with a wrecking ball, as Harris slumps, exhausted, sliding down the rear panel of the car until his butt hits the dirt.
He tosses the shotgun aside, covers his face with his hands.
‘“Hold my beer”,’ he whispers. ‘“Hold my beer, and watch this”.’