Boxed Page 8

  ‘Drop your fucking guns. Both of you.’ They do. They know I’m the dude who isn’t afraid to shoot.

  I’m tempted to ask how their injured friend is doing, but that would be kind of obscene. I reach for the phone in my pocket. This time I’m calling the police. I hear a noise behind me, and Elaine slithers in next to me. She grabs at my hand, and holds it. It feels intimate.

  ‘No. Don’t call anyone. Just get rid of them.’

  I don’t question her. I just obey. ‘Righto, you two, get out of here. If I see you in this area again, I’ll shoot you. No questions asked. That’s a promise.’

  They turn and quickly leave. I stand and follow them, gun pointed. Elaine is at my side. The car leaves. We hug, and she says, ‘Wow. Who are you?’

  Her flattering stops me asking why she didn’t want me to call the police. And now I don’t want to know because memory tells me the police aren’t on my side. Our side? I unload the rifle and lean it against the door. Elaine says, ‘Would you mind putting it away? It scares me.’ I put the rifle in my bag, zip it, and then pull up a stool. For a moment, we just sit taking it in, and maybe wondering, What’s next?

  Elaine says, ‘I’m going to call the security company. Get someone in for the night.’ She walks to the other end of the room, picks up a phone, and punches in some numbers. After a short conversation, she returns.

  And then I have to ask, ‘You killed your husband?’

  Elaine takes a stool too, finds her wine glass, fills it, and then fills mine. ‘Not literally.’

  This is a relief. We are both still breathing heavily.

  ‘I just pushed him too hard, way too hard. We had some tough times, which is why we bought the farm and moved out here. I was desperate for him to do something with his pottery — not just the popular stuff he had been making, but something significant. I knew he was capable of it.’ She slurps. I guzzle.

  ‘He was killed in a plane crash in Africa?’ I place the question carefully, letting her know it’s a topic she can avoid if she wants to.

  ‘What? No!’

  ‘Oh sorry … I thought …’ I’m suffering for having jumped in with an unverified rumour. Serves me right.

  ‘It was a car crash … out west. Jesus. Africa?’

  ‘Just what I heard.’

  ‘I thought you two were mates.’

  ‘A bit, I guess.’

  This looks like it hurts.

  ‘I’m sorry. I …’

  ‘No problem. Anyway. He was fascinated with some of the clay soils out west. Thought they had a magic. Made several trips out there. Used to stay at a tiny place called Willi. I teased him that he liked it more out there than at home. Anyway, I pushed him to find interesting clays, come up with better designs, make more pottery, sleep less, work harder. On the way home, he fell asleep and drove into a road train.’

  ‘I really am sorry.’ A better person would have left it there. But I am too far down the road to deadshit. ‘What did they mean: “You need to give us what we want”?’

  ‘Tito had a contract with some bad people. To make some vases and things. He never finished the contract, and they seem to think I’ve got the remaining pieces somewhere. I’m sure he told you about it, didn’t he?’

  ‘No. We didn’t really talk about serious stuff.’

  ‘He said you were safe.’

  I remember him saying something like that, but I don’t understand where she is going with this, so I direct us back to the topic.

  ‘He never finished the contract?’ I don’t know a single thing about bad guys or the underworld, but those words sound like little bombshells going off in the shiny space between us.

  ‘No, as far as I can tell. Didn’t deliver the pieces they wanted, or at least the right pieces.’

  I hold my tongue. Elaine has sunk into her thoughts.

  ‘God, I visited the accident site so many times afterwards. I’d sit there just looking at the place where it happened. The first few times, I found pieces of his car in the long grass, but I stopped looking after a while. I hung out in Willi as if someone there would pop up and give me an explanation, but no one ever did. It was just a car accident. One of many. It was only me who couldn’t get it through her head.’

  I am thinking I should be saying something consoling and stop with the questions, but I can’t.

  ‘What’s your boyfriend, ex, got to do with it?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She is tired of my questions.

  ‘What have I got to do with it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I think about the guy who robbed Mick.

  ‘But I’m glad you were here.’

  She puts a hand on my shoulder, and I flinch at her second touch. It is a long time since I was touchable.

  ‘So am I. It’s just that now I’m worried you’re not safe, and neither am I.’

  ‘You seem like you can handle yourself.’ Every thrust seems to have a parry that deflects me from working out what to do.

  She gets up, walks to the fridge, opens it, and peruses. ‘Want something to eat?’

  Until the last two days I haven’t been in any scrapes with firearms, but I can’t imagine anyone remaining as calm as she has after a potential armed robbery. My left leg is beginning to shake in its place on the stool rung as a reminder that I am not as calm as I pretend, and I put a hand down to still it. ‘Sure.’

  ‘How about a stir fry?’

  ‘Terrific.’ I stand, and wobble my head around trying to ease the knots in my neck. ‘I’m going to have a little look around.’ I don’t know why I didn’t do this before. She nods as she puts out things on the bench. There might never have been a rifle shot in the house. We are neighbours having a late dinner.

  Outside, the stars are keen to point out my insignificance. They are the only light not thrown by the house. The harvesters no longer work on the plain. There are no cars passing. I walk around the garden and the lawn, soft under my feet, listening for anything out of place. There is hardly a sound. One circuit of the house takes me back to the door with the bullet hole in it, and the stir fry Elaine is serving. Before I enter, I watch Elaine and imagine she is whistling while she works. I cannot make sense of what I am feeling. Her story is plausible, but her actions feel wrong. Why not call the police? What crockery is worth being shot at for? I turn, and step off the verandah. Too many things are out of kilter, and I reckon I know about ‘out of kilter’. I walk towards the ute, and hear the door behind me opening on the verandah.

  ‘Dave?’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Come back.’

  ‘I will.’ I keep walking.

  On the way home, I consider camping, but I know I’ll end up in my own bed with a rifle to hand. But as I make the turn at my mailbox, a car comes towards me, dims its lights, and pulls in alongside. Ian winds down his window and says, ‘You’re back.’

  ‘Yeah. My plans didn’t work out.’

  ‘Oh, bad luck. Mandy thought she had seen lights on at your house, and she insisted I come and have a look. I guess it was you?’

  ‘Yeah. I should have told you. Sorry about that.’

  ‘Not a problem.’

  He looks at me carefully and asks, ‘Are you all right?’ It is not an offhand question.

  ‘Yeah, I’m good. Thanks for helping out. I’ll see you.’ I put the ute into gear.

  ‘No, Dave.’ He gets out of his car and comes over to me. ‘You look like shit. I can’t just let you go home on your own.’ He grabs hold of my door as if by sheer strength he can stop me driving away.

  ‘I’m fine. Just a bit tired.’

  ‘Bullshit, Dave. Come home with me. Just for the night. We’ll look after you — have a big breakfast together in the morning. Nothing’s so urgent, is it?’

  To accept his offer would be an admission of weakne
ss and a nod to desperation. I am a mess, but if I don’t concede it to anyone else, I feel like I can pretend that my mess is a secret, or at least most of it.

  ‘Really, I’m okay.’

  He is quiet, not letting go of the door. ‘Maybe you could come for a cup of tea and a chat?’

  ‘It’s midnight.’

  ‘So what? Mandy would love to see you, and she worries we don’t look after you as well as we could when you’re on your own down here.’

  The cup of tea is a clever get-out clause. I don’t want to be in my house tonight, and he wants to make sure I’m not going to kill myself. ‘You sure Mandy isn’t asleep?’

  ‘She’ll have the kettle boiled by the time we get there.’

  ‘I’ll come for a cup of tea.’

  ‘Terrific.’ He finally lets go of my ute and gets back into his car. He leans out the window, and says, ‘If you chicken out, I’ll have to come back down here and sleep in your bedroom with you, and you don’t want that.’ Then he is gone at the steady pace you would expect.

  The Blent house is a simple rectangle on the side of a low hill facing north. The garden looks small but heavily populated in the dark. The Blents are not wealthy, but they are not wanting either. They are people in control of their farm, and their lives. Willing to help those out of control.

  In the kitchen, Mandy is waiting, dressed for an outing, and almost too bright, and friendly. She is a small woman with bouncy brown hair and quick, busy movements. I know this is not a place where lethargy gets a look-in. I consent to tea, and as the kettle re-boils she puts out homemade biscuits that it seems possible she has baked in the last half-hour. She apologises for sending Ian off to have a look around my place in the middle of the night, and hopes I don’t think he was snooping.

  ‘It is just that I thought I saw light coming from the area of your house, and I even thought I smelt smoke at one stage. You can’t be too careful these days.’

  I agree, and she goes on to talk about stories she’s heard in the news, of cattle and sheep being stolen, and of people deliberately starting fires. Ian drinks his tea and listens, mostly watching Mandy, and occasionally looking over at me. I have the unique sensation of feeling like I’m in good hands.

  I know that if they start to ask me questions about what I have been up to, and where I was supposed to be going away to, I will not be able to come up with anything believable. The memory of my doppelganger comes to my rescue.

  ‘I had the strangest thing happen to me. A guy with my name and my address …’ I tell them the story, and then ask if they have ever heard of him or the address.

  ‘There is definitely a Wilson Road on the other side of town. Or it might be a Wilson Avenue or something. There were a lot of Wilsons amongst the early settlers in the area.’ Ian says. ‘And I’m pretty sure there’s a “Fythe Trees” out there somewhere, too. But I’ve never heard of a David Martin.’

  Mandy shakes her head as if she knows nothing, and then says, ‘There is a Sue Martin who lives on a farm on that side of town.’

  They volley possibilities at each other, and I stop listening. All I really wanted to do was take the focus away from me. But it occurs to me that I should go and have a look at Dave Martin and his place before he turns up at mine.

  They are trying to agree on whether a Samson family live on that road, and I give a little laugh, and break into their to and fro. ‘Elaine Slade’s not dead. Did you hear that? The newspaper stuffed it up.’

  Mandy rolls her eyes with a gesture of What can you expect? and says, ‘We did hear that. We were about to ring and see what we could do to help out when we found out it was a hoax.’

  ‘That newspaper ought to hire a real journalist or close down, as far as I’m concerned,’ Ian says, chastened.

  ‘I visited her. She seemed fine.’

  I have said something they don’t understand, and they both look at me, unguarded in their interest.

  ‘You visited Elaine?’ Mandy asks, sounding like she thinks I’ve made a joke.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That was a nice thing to do.’

  I nod. I hadn’t thought about there being a ‘nice’ aspect to it.

  ‘I’ve never had anything to do with her. She doesn’t come to any of the fundraisers or open gardens, or any of the other things we put on. She’ll give a donation, but she won’t socialise. Not that I know of, anyway. Quite beautiful, though.’ Mandy gives the impression that something as exotic as genuine beauty could be a reasonable excuse for antisocial behaviour.

  ‘She seems nice, but I can’t quite make her out,’ I say.

  ‘Why’s that?’ Ian asks, as if he might be genuinely interested. Perhaps they are both keen for information on a local they know so little about. In a small farming community like ours, people are surprised and discomfited by someone unknown. Or maybe they just want to keep me talking.

  ‘There’s a bit of trouble going on down there, but I’m not sure what it is. Bad people turning up, and now her assault. I haven’t had anything to do with that sort of stuff before. Maybe she’s some sort of criminal.’ I pause, and their eyes go wide at the assertion. ‘But probably not.’

  Ian says, ‘But she wasn’t assaulted. That was all a mistake by the paper.’

  I nearly tell them about the first assault, my first visit to Elaine’s place, but it suddenly feels like too much to reveal. ‘Yeah, you’re right. I might be misreading her.’

  When I’ve finished answering their questions, I thank them for the tea and biscuits, and tell them how tired I feel and that I need to be home. Mandy tries to insist that I stay the night, and then Ian adds his voice. I say the chat has helped, I really will be fine, and leave the room before they can lock the door or something.

  At the ute, Ian tries one more time, but the conviction is lost, and before he finds the energy for threats, I am on my way home to where I don’t want to be, wondering who’ll come for me next.

  I left a kitchen light on so I wouldn’t have to stumble in, in the dark, but when I walk in the back door I know immediately that something is different. I couldn’t say what. I look around, and think it’s not like someone could make a mess of the place. But someone has been here. Is here? I reach into the walk-in pantry for the .22, then I stand still and listen. Nothing. The house is as quiet as the creaking hulk ever gets. I stand still, and calm my breathing. There is only the thump of my heart, and then the distant scream of a vixen. It could be a plea from a woman in trouble. I tell myself it’s not. I’m sure it’s not. I’ve heard their horny call a thousand times, and every time I’ve hated them for their relentless procreation.

  I step forward, rolling my feet one at a time, and then stop. Nothing.

  ‘All right. You can come out now.’ I say it coolly as I can, the man in control, the man with the gun.

  No reply. So I walk through the house, the rifle at my shoulder, taking aim at every doorway and cupboard. No one reveals themselves or makes a break for the pitch-black night.

  I lean the rifle against the couch, take my boots off, and lie down. Eventually I sleep, or I think I sleep. The line between being awake and not awake is blurred by dreams that lurch across the line of reality.

  7

  It is mail day, but I don’t get to the mailbox until well after lunch, when I’ve fed and watered the dogs and given them a run. In the mailbox is a rates notice, a mail-out from my local politician, a bank statement, a phone bill, and two more boxes. I have a good mind to put them all in a pile and burn them. I take them home, and take all of the boxes out of the ute and put them in the laundry. Whatever is in the new boxes, I don’t want to know. I will look at them another day when I am feeling more resilient. Now I don’t even know why I’m going to the trouble of checking my mail. It always turns out to be a disaster.

  I shut the laundry door, check my phone, and realise that, sometime in th
e past few days, Sarah has sent me a text saying that she and Lucy are coming to visit on the day that turns out to be today. They are going to stay in town, but she would be happy if I was around when they were. I’m thinking that visiting your son’s grave with your new girlfriend, alongside your old husband, is kind of insane, although insane ideas have become dime a dozen around here, so I can’t really complain. But when I see our car, the white four-wheel drive that has become Sarah’s, coming towards the house, I do have the feeling that crazy has come to town. And yet it is the least of my problems. The idea of seeing Sarah, no matter who she is with or why, makes me feel better. I know I will be jealous and probably erratic in my response to both of them, but still I welcome Sarah’s arrival.

  They get out of the car, stretching and looking around as if they are tourists on a pit stop. I walk across the garden to greet them. Sarah kisses me on the cheek, and I am thankful. She looks tense but healthy, and not as tired as I remember her. She introduces Lucy, who smiles sweetly. There is no mention of the state of the garden, and their faces give no clues of their feelings. Lucy is half pretty, but obviously unconcerned by her looks. Her hair is straight and short, but still lank. Her clothes are worn jeans, a simple shirt, and work boots. I have no intelligence on whether she is slim, chubby, or curvaceous. If this is my replacement, I have no idea how to compete.

  Everything that Sarah and I have been to each other is so far in the past I am almost disconnected from it. But I still react to the presence of Sarah the way I always have. In my mind’s eye she is the embodiment of what I hope a woman I am with will look like: she is pretty but self-effacing, and moves with a sportswoman’s confidence. Her smile is enough to light even my dark days. After all we have been through, and all the things I have done to her, she still gives me a sense of her warmth. If we had never met before, I would be thinking about her tomorrow and the day after. Some people just have what you desire, regardless of practicality or convention. If such a thing as ‘the one’ exists, then she is mine. The fact that it was beyond my capabilities to hold on to her is just another great big well of pain.