Unbidden Read online

  Mick moved slowly toward it, like a parishioner approaching a font. “I know it’s got a red engine.” He looked back at Rob. “Do you mind?”

  “No, go ahead.”

  Mick reverently reached in through the ute’s window and popped the hood. He went round to the front and opened it wide, revealing the model’s distinctive red engine. It sat in the cavity like a huge, arrested heart.

  “Inline six cylinder,” Mick intoned. “A third more grunt than the FH’s grey.”

  Rob was impressed. “An authority.”

  “I know a bit,” said Mick, gazing at the Holden’s interior wistfully.

  “A shame you won’t be sticking around ’til I’ve got it kicking over again. Sounds like you’d appreciate it.”

  Mick’s eyes suddenly, almost regretfully, cleared.

  “Maybe we’ll be back through here some day,” he said.

  “If the boy hasn’t wrapped it around a tree before then.”

  Rob walked over to a bench and picked up what he’d come in for. He tossed it to Mick, who caught a scuffed and dented crash helmet in his hands.

  “Ever flown before?”

  “Yeah. On an extradition flight or two.”

  Rob puzzled over Mick’s statement at first, before laughing heartily.

  Not too long after, Mick joined in.

  ***

  The whirlybird stood in a clearing not far from the machinery shed, set on a cement square, spray-painted with a white bull’s-eye. Rob explained that the whirlybird was nothing flash, just a second-hand, stripped-back Robin R-Type two-seater.

  “It does the job come mustering time,” he said as he checked over the machine. “Some people think it’s a bit rich having a proper place to set down, but that way I know nothing will be in the way of the blades or the skids. I’ve seen it happen to another copter … turned over by a tree stump no higher than my ankle.”

  Seeing how the slight, flimsy aircraft shook and quivered as Rob inspected it, Mick wouldn’t have been surprised if it tripped on a grass stem.

  It hadn’t really occurred to him until his heartbeat started thudding in his temples that he was committed to going up in a heavier-than-air contraption again. But someone needed to keep an eye on Rob and look normal doing it. He wasn’t about to explain how he’d been in a serious plane crash only two days before. He only hoped he didn’t wait until he was in midair to have an attack of the screaming-meemies.

  ***

  “Here it is,” Janet said. She may as well have shouted, “Proof of what you are!”

  Doug flinched inwardly, but hoped it didn’t show as he reached for what Janet held out to him. But she wouldn’t let him off that easy. She showed the shirt off first, wanting him to acknowledge the large, incriminating stain on the front of it before he was allowed to reclaim it.

  “I put it through twice, but it’s the best I can do. Sorry.”

  Displayed for everyone to see was the bloody imprint of Selena’s hand – faded, but still legible. He hesitated in reaching for it, trying to curl his hand up to make it seem smaller. The handprint, though smeared large, was still too slight to be his.

  Janet tsked. “Normally I pride myself on being able to get bloodstains out, but this one’s sticking.”

  “It’s fine,” Doug said, folding the shirt so the mark wouldn’t show. “Its glory days are over, anyway. I only wear it for dirty work … you know … stuff around the house.”

  Janet wasn’t satisfied. “I’ve never had so much trouble shifting one of those before. You should see what a calving can do to a wool jumper and pair of jeans.”

  Scott and Warlock were sitting at the table with Doug, oblivious to the discussion, digging into their share of breakfast. Warlock had come late, taking too long in the bathroom, but was making up for it. The Clarkson boy kept pace, mouthful for mouthful.

  A wrinkle on Janet’s brow. “You alright, Doug? You look a little peaky.”

  Doug tried on a winning smile, one he learned from Mick. “To tell the truth I think the accident shook us up more than we thought. None of us slept well last night.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Warlock garbled through a full mouth.

  It was then Lauren came round the corner of the hallway. She was reciting in a murmur, “Sleep no more. Macbeth does murder sleep.”

  Doug tried not to stare. Though he knew it for what it was … just a coincidence, he was still startled by her timing. But he was not as visibly shaken as Lauren herself. She pulled up short when she saw them seated around the breakfast table, attentive to her arrival. The only chair available was beside Warlock. All of a sudden she was unsure of where to go, twisting and turning in the wind.

  “Lauren, did you forget something?” Janet asked.

  “No.”

  “Then sit down.”

  Lauren ducked her head and sat down next to Warlock. A distinct change had come over her since the night before. Then, she had competed with her brother to be the most lively and outspoken at the dinner table. This morning she was as nervous as a foal. And the makeup she wore only served to make her bashfulness stand out even more. Its sheen, applied carefully so as not to look like make-up (and failing), emboldened her face – if not her. The effort was not lost on either Janet or Doug.

  Warlock missed the artifice. For some reason, he just seemed compelled to pay more attention to her. He leaned in closer. “What was that?” he asked with an encouraging smile. “A song?”

  “No,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

  Janet busily attended to the washing up. “She’s learning it for school.”

  Lauren showed the first fire of the day, glaring at her mother. Janet failed to catch the dire look, perhaps deliberately.

  “Really?” Warlock asked. “What are you studying?”

  “I don’t go to school. I do it from ho–”

  “Ten,” Janet said. “She’s in grade ten.”

  Janet was dealt another smoking glare as she wiped down a counter.

  “It’s Shakespeare,” Lauren finally said.

  Scott piped up through a mouthful of toast. “That bullshit.”

  Her unruffled expression not changing in the slightest, Janet went and gave her son a sharp clip over the ear. Head hunching into his shoulders, Scott frowned at his mother, then turned back to his sister to repeat complacently.

  “That … bullshit.”

  Clip. Janet got him again.

  Scott grinned, enjoying himself. He said it speeded-up. “Bllsht.”

  Clip.

  “Buuuuuuulllllll …” Clip.

  “… sshhhhiiiiiii–tuh!” Clip.

  His ear a beet red, Scott laughed out loud and went back to chewing his toast. Janet shook her head helplessly at Doug before going back to her cleaning.

  Warlock leaned in toward Lauren. “Are you learning to be an actress?”

  “No,” Lauren replied, barely able to look in his direction, but managing a curt roll of the eyes. “I have to do it.”

  Janet passed her daughter a disbelieving look. “Well, if you won’t be collecting an Oscar any time soon, would you mind collecting the milk and eggs after you finish your breakfast?”

  Lauren leapt from her chair. “I’ll do it now.”

  At the sight of her daughter’s untouched plate, Janet opened her mouth to object, but let it go. Doug suspected it was an old quarrel, never arriving at a satisfactory conclusion, and Janet would have no wish to repeat it in front of an audience.

  She turned to her son, who was a more reliable constant. “You. Potty-mouth. Go help your sister.”

  “Ah! Don’t call me that! That’s a baby name!”

  “Well, if you don’t want to be called a baby, don’t act like one. Now move.”

  Scott could have been trying to escape quicksand for all his effort to leave the table. But then his reluctance fell away. He helped himself to as much food as he could carry in one hand before racing around the table to pull on Warlock with the other. Caught off guard,
Warlock allowed himself to be dragged from his chair.

  “C’mon,” Scott insisted, “I’ll show you me dogs!”

  “Scott! Leave Wayne alone!” Janet appeared ready to prise her son away.

  Warlock looked at Doug. Doug looked back blankly. Hint enough. Best not to let anyone out of sight again. He and Mick had given him that talk.

  Warlock let Scott haul him over to the back door, saying to Janet: “No, it’s okay.” To Scott he said: “I already saw your dogs last night.”

  “Nah!” Scott said, not letting up on his hauling. “We keep the best ones tied up. You can’t pat ’em! They’d take your hand off soon as look at you!”

  Warlock threw a bleak glance at Doug before he was dragged from the house, Scott’s voice coming loud and clear. “They’re gonna be bloody good piggers one day!”

  Doug and Janet were left alone in the kitchen. Silence descended. The quiet became harder to break as it stretched out, with only the occasional clink to disturb it.

  Doug almost cleared his throat. Stopped himself.

  “Would you like a top up?” Janet asked.

  “Yes,” he replied gratefully, holding out his cup.

  Chapter Nine

  Rob shouted in Mick’s ear: “I want to show you something!”

  Mick sincerely hoped it was solid ground. Despite his helmet shutting out most of the racket he had a horrendous headache. The constant thudding of the props made his insides feel they were shaking loose from their moorings, his bowels most of all.

  At some indicator only known to Rob, they made a stomach-dropping turn, the land rising up into Mick’s side. Though firmly strapped in, the old man leaned back involuntarily, instinctively resisting the pull of gravity.

  A tap on his shoulder. Rob pointed to a dark blot on the landscape below. Mick held a pair of binoculars in his lap and he raised them, fitting them over his spectacles. What he saw was watching him back even as he steadied and adjusted the focus.

  A bull stood isolated in the emptiness of a huge paddock. With a hide as red as claret, he turned about to track the whirlybird. Even with no nearby markers to accurately gauge his size, Mick could tell he was a monster. At a rough guess, the horns spanned near to two metres, thick pikes tapering to points that appeared wickedly sharp.

  The bull dissolved into a quaking blur and Mick abandoned the binoculars. The whirlybird was coming in directly over the animal. Though his knowledge of cattle was slim, Mick knew bulls could be as skittish as cows, even more so when on their own with no need to protect the herd or save face. Even the most obstinate bull erupted into flight at the sight and sound of large machinery approaching too close.

  This particular beast, darker than a bloodshot eye, did nothing of the sort.

  The bull stamped forward in the wind-skittered dust and brandished his massive horns at the whirlybird as it flew past. He was challenging it.

  “Fuck me,” Mick said. Rob caught Mick in time to read both his lips and expression, and he grinned, yet his satisfaction was grim as well. He leaned over to be heard above the thudding props. Mick caught most of it. “That’s King Solomon, our main breeding bull. Big mongrel, isn’t he? He’s one of the best breeders in the state, but the nastiest piece of work you’ll ever come across. Very territorial.”

  The whirlybird’s shadow flew over the ground next to Solomon and the bull charged and gouged the earth where it passed, dirt and root clusters tossed high.

  “This is as close as the king gets to the house,” Rob said. “He’d just love to get us down there all on our lonesome. Something you never want to see is one ton of murder up close.”

  The whirlybird shot away, leaving the huffing and snorting Solomon far behind. Yet Mick was certain the bull’s glare was still fixed on them.

  “We have to keep an eye on him when we put him out to stud,” Rob continued. “Once he gored a female when he finished rutting with her. Broke both her hind legs before we could get him off. Complete disaster.”

  Now Mick knew why the bull seemed so oddly familiar. It reminded him of a like-minded animal he’d left far behind.

  ***

  Lauren opened the coop and the hens piled over themselves in their rush to be out. She waited on any stragglers before she entered the dark and muggy interior. Scott remained outside, scaring the hens, setting them off into blasts of fluttering wings and squawking. If mum or dad had caught him doing that, he would have gotten a hiding. Frightened chooks laid bad eggs. Lauren had seen some strange ones. Sometimes the abnormalities came singularly and sometimes in clumps. The same abnormalities were often repeated. She recalled the collapsible eggs, as pliable as water-filled balloons; also the ping-pong balls, their shells as flaky as old paint; and the ones that looked fine on the outside but inside had bristly hooked hairs and were black and rubbery. She’d seen eggs that sprouted veins, and ones where the narrow ends were sharpened black points mushy to the touch. The worst were the ones where the embryos were wrapped around the outside, only thin water inside. She was no vegetarian, but she wasn’t fond of eggs.

  Her eyes still adjusting to the low light, she trod on something soft.

  Warlock ducked to enter the coop and was nearly driven outside again by the smell. He liked chickens as much as Lauren liked eggs. He’d sacrificed a rooster for a Sons of Loki piss-up once and the scampering headless fowl had seemed to find him wherever he dodged. It was like one of those old stories where a tortured cat carries out a supernatural revenge. There had been shrieking. Fatboy smoothed things over with the one per cent, but Warlock fell out of favour after that. It wasn’t a good look for their satanic consultant to come across as a pansy.

  The air inside the coop was thick with the floating stringy motes only moulting feathers could produce. Breathing through his mouth, Warlock looked where the girl was looking. “Are they supposed to be like that?” he asked.

  Lauren was remembering how the chickens had exited the coop, tumbling out in a frenzied charge to be away. At the time she hadn’t noticed how few there were. She moved around the interior, peering into the darker corners to see if some predator was still lurking inside, but she found nothing. Nothing, except for the twenty or so hens strewn over the straw-covered earth. In death, they looked like rags and stuffing.

  Not one to be squeamish over dead farm animals, Lauren picked up one of the limp birds and examined it. She turned it over, spread out a wing, lifted the head. No sign of blood or any other visible injury. It was easy to make a diagnosis: except for a few straggly tufts on the collar, cuffs and wingtips, the bird was stripped of feathers. All of the hens at her feet had suffered the same fate. She peered closely at the bird in her hands, but saw none of the skin trauma plucking would produce. The feathers appeared to have just fallen out. The glazed staring eyes and dull lead point of tongue poking out wouldn’t normally bother her too much, but it was all a bit extreme.

  A few of the surviving flock hadn’t escaped outside with the others. They remained huddled behind their perches, frightened eyes blinking out at her. Lauren had to persuade them to move, using her hand for a scoop, breaking up the cluster and pitching them out the door. Warlock made it outside faster.

  Still conscious of the chore she was sent to do, Lauren searched the nests and usual hiding places for eggs. She didn’t find any. Not even a malformed egg. None of the forty or so hens had laid, not one.

  ***

  Scott burst in with the bad news just as Janet was pouring Doug his umpteenth coffee. He was babbling with so much excitement they thought it was good news to begin with.

  “One word at a time, Scott. How many did you say were dead?”

  “All of them! Nearly all of them!”

  “Fourteen,” Lauren corrected, entering the kitchen with a covered bucket of milk. She’d left her gumboots at the door while Warlock trudged in after her on stockinged feet. He went straight for a seat at the table.

  “We’re having chicken for lunch,” he told Doug.

  “What happened
?” Janet asked her daughter, but Scott interrupted, proposing he take his .22 rifle, the trail bike, two of his best dogs, and hunt down the fox that killed the chooks.

  Janet regarded her son affectionately, if sparingly.

  “Chores first. Killing later.”

  “But it might get away!”

  “If it got a good feed last night, it’ll stick around.” She took the milk bucket from Lauren. “Where did you put the dead hens? You didn’t leave them in the coop?”

  “No,” Lauren replied with a practised tone of exasperation. “I put them inside the old fridge next to the barn. I thought dad might want to have a look at them later.”

  Janet poured some of the milk from the bucket into a glass jug, setting it down on the table in front of Doug. “What are you doing, Scott?”

  “Having some cereal.”

  “Didn’t you already have two bowls?”

  “Two small ones.”

  Janet gave Lauren her attention again. “Did you find where the fox was getting in and block it up?”

  “No.” Lauren scowled at her brother. “I don’t even know if it was a fox. None of the chooks are missing, and there’s nowhere it could have got in.”

  “Are you sure you looked properly? The smart ones cover the holes to keep it as their own private stash.”

  Warlock smiled at a private joke. As Doug innocently poured milk into his coffee cup, he seriously considered kicking the punk’s leg under the table.

  “I know,” Lauren said, “and I’m sure.” There was a note of warning in her response. Guests or no guests, she was out of patience. Even Warlock picked up on the vibe and he was as sensitive to these things as a boxer gone punchy.

  Doug took a sip of his coffee. He bit down on a grimace.

  “Too hot?” Janet asked, seemingly alert to all else but the feelings of her teenage daughter.