Bide

The local church chimed twelve times and the child in Will Shaddock resurfaced as he stepped out of parents’ newsagents and into the main street of his home town. When he was a child, he’d watch his father do the same thing, like clockwork, each Sunday. Always a cross-check of his watch against the first chime, and an exclamation that it was ‘the real time’ as he closed shop for the day.
Will turned the lock and surveyed the area. Flannelette-wearing churchgoers, old people setting out on afternoon walks, a stray dog. The town was silent-heavy, dying. He looked up at the sky. It was overcast: a thin, pale layer of sunlight trying to sneak through. A proper Sunday.
His listless gaze was broken upon hearing the click of boots on the pavement. He turned around and saw Angela walking toward him. A faded denim jacket partially covered a light blue cotton dress that clung to her body; an effervescent smile on her face. Excitement rippled through him as he accepted her kiss. She was early.
­“How was your morning, darl?” Angela asked.
“Same old,” he said. He searched the recesses of his brain for a sharp afterthought but nothing came.
“Always the same, huh?”
“Yep. Always the same.”
“Ah well, not to worry, let’s do some exploring... Let’s go to the river, somewhere you’ve never been...”
She ruffled his hair and winked: “Where we can do our own thing.”
They held hands walking toward his station wagon. Will reflected on how strange it felt to be allowing someone into his world; having his little routine impeded. It felt good. Angela’s hand rested on his left leg as they took off. Shadows lengthened as the sunlight glowed and expanded. A strange calm permeated Will’s body. He took his sunglasses out of the driver door console, put them on and smiled.
Angela was looking out the window, her eyes darting around in every direction. Every few seconds Will would look across at her. Tall and curvy, the multi-coloured bandanna in her hair, bronzed skin, her face faintly freckled. Her face lit up when she smiled, which was so often it prompted Will to think she knew something that no-one else did.

* * *

A few weeks before she had walked into the newsagent. Having purchased a copy of Living Now magazine, she introduced herself. She told him she had moved from the city to write; of her fascination with the Murray River; that she was intrigued by the seclusion of the area. Will, realising she wanted a conversation and not the standard small talk to which he was accustomed, nervously pieced a few sentences together. Of course he’d show her around.
At the pub that same night she told Will of her strong belief in fate; that there was a reason he stayed in the town when so many of his peers had moved on. Will didn't know about any of that, but as she placed her hands over his, he felt a warm sense of life easing its way back into his psyche.

* * *

Will turned onto a dirt back road he knew went toward the river. On either side there were towering, ancient river gums and dense scrub from where the occasional galah or wild cockatoo would fly.
Nearing a bend they saw a small navy blue sign ahead of a turnoff that led onto a rough track. Angela sat upright, peering forward.
“Let’s check it out.”
Will looked at the wordless sign, uncertain.
“I bet ya it’s a dead end.”
“Could be,” Angela said, now leaning into Will’s space, “but it could be paradise, too.”
Will couldn’t help smiling. “Okay then.”
A few minutes after the turnoff their path was blocked by a rotting wooden log which had been placed in the crude indentations of two thick stumps that sat on either side, suspending it about one metre off the ground. Shrubbery filled the space underneath.
Angela jumped out and walked over to the log and scanned the area.
“The track continues,” she called back to Will still sitting in the car.
She took a closer look at the log. A dank, musty smell; termite-ridden.
“I reckon this is about to crumble,” she said to Will, who was now walking over. “We could probably move it, or break it.”
Will was unsure. He was sure there’d be a reason for the blockade. Nevertheless, as soon as Angela’s boot sunk into the wood he joined in. After very little exertion it gave way. They tossed its remnants to the side of the road and drove onward into the bush.
Will drove cautiously, yet feeling safe with Angela in the car. Angela's feet tapped to the rhythm of the car radio and her body wriggled as the the scrub became less dense. Hundreds of identically tall, slender, ash-coloured trees lined either side of the track. There was no green anywhere; even the shrubbery and weeds at the foot of the trees were in grey-scale.
The gaps between the trees eventually started to open up; they could see the stumps of chopped trees. They had arrived at a clearing on the river. An open area with gum trees that seemed to arch over either side. A hand-made wooden table with seats. They got out. The ground was soft underfoot with lush cooch grass that spread along to the ridged river bank. There was a ten-metre drop down a honeycomb-crumbling red rock cliff face to the water where thick reeds tangled amid a variety of flotsam.
Angela eyes danced. “We've found it.”
They sit down on the grass. Angela procured a three-skin joint from her bag, and immediately lit up; exhaling coolly as Will sat watching her like a puppy dog. They smoke and hold each other, a light wind coating them as the afternoon drifts away silently.
After a time, Will kissed the top of Angela’s jawline, inadvertently blowing in her ear. Angela moaned softly and looked at Will curiously, hauling herself up. She took hold of his hand, leading him toward the car. Removing her jacket she climbed into the back of the vehicle onto Will's flimsy mattress, removing her underwear in the same motion. Will lay by her side, holding her face between his hands and kissing her as she unbuckled the belt on his jeans. Saliva quickly found its way through desert-dry tongues as they began to take great mouthfuls of each other; the smell of sex filling the car as their frazzled minds, released of inhibition, chased a common goal. And as they held each other in the dying throes of intimacy, she reached out and wrote ‘I love you’ on the steamed-up glass.

* * *

Will lay there regaining himself as Angela stepped out of the car. After a few minutes he sat up and watched as she danced on the grass. Her dress was sticking to her skin with sweat: the nipples of her breasts, released from their bra, were taut against the thin material. The first strums of Jeff Buckley's Lilac Wine sounded. He slipped into the front seat to turn the radio up. Angela’s head bobbed from side to side as her body writhed; her hips swaying and long legs moving to the rest of her body's groove. As the last strains of Jeff’s falsetto faded Angela's movements slowed and he reached down to turn the radio off. It was then he heard a crack in the air like that of a large whip. He looked up and saw Angela, hobbling backwards toward the edge of the riverbank, a red patch soaking through her dress. Her eyes were wide and her mouth open as she continued to sway backwards, as if in slow motion, toppling over the bank.
As Will's shaky hand reached for the door handle, he heard another loud crack and then the glass of the right-side backseat window shattered. He looked out frantically, and noticed movement in the bushes to the right of the car and a figure emerging. Instinctively he turned the ignition and floored the accelerator just as his rearview mirror shattered. In a cloud of dust he grabbed the steering wheel and controlled it enough to turn the vehicle around. He drove blindly along the hazardous tracks. The car's suspension took a battering as he cannoned into steeply rising juts in the road. His periphery vision was a swirl of grey and green. He arrived back on the dirt road; flicked open his mobile phone. No coverage. Fuck.
He'd have to drive back into town.
What will I do when I get there?Frantic thoughts flew at him, each one erasing the one that preceded it. He drove along for a few more minutes then finally pulled over, his heart thrashing in his chest, his mouth dry. He dialled 000.
“Please state your emergency,” a woman said sharply.
His tongue felt like it had been dipped in gravel; he couldn't bring himself to speak. Shaking all over, he cancelled the call.
What the fuck am I going to do. This is off the Richter scale for me!
You need to ring the police, ring 000, ring someone!
What are you going to say, though? You were in a secluded spot and someone shot your girlfriend? Someone? Whoever the fuck this guy was, he won't be sticking around.
Evidence? His gun? They'll suspect you. You know what the legal system is like.
And you, ya fuckin' coward. Your girlfriend is there. Lying face down in the river. How are you gonna live with yourself?
He sat there, his head in his hands. A ute pulled over behind him. His Uncle Ben stepped out.
Will took a long, shaky swig of his water bottle as Ben approached.
Maybe if we both go back we can... but I'm risking his life... he'll know something's --
“G'day Will, what you up to?”
You could tell him, he'd help in some --
“Nothing, just pulled over to change a CD.”
You toss... that's you done forever.
His uncle leaned in. “Everything okay?”
Will breathed in; exhaling quietly. “Yeah... how you going?”
Ben held his gaze on Will as he spoke, his eyebrows slightly arched. “Not bad mate. Just heading back from your brother's actually. Had to drop off some tools. His tractor's had it.”
Will nodded, all the while looking at his dashboard.
“He tells me you've got a new lady in your life?”
Fuck.
“Yeah... Ang... She's cool.”
“She sounds it. Bring her around for tea one night, okay?”
Will looked up at Ben. His heart felt dead in his chest. He forced a smile.
“Okay.”
Ben smiled back, and put out his hand.Will responded limply.
“You sure you're okay?” Ben asked. “You look like you've dropped twenty bob.”
“I'm fine.”
Fuck’s sake.He swallowed hard, clearing his throat, and called out to his uncle, who had started walking away: “Say G'day to Aunt Janet and Bryce for me, can you?”
Ben swiveled, the gravel crunching under his feet.
“Will do. He turned thirteen last week. Makes me feel old... Look after yourself, hey?”
Yep. That’s what I do.
Ben waved as he passed Will, hitting his horn. Will watched, tears warming his face as Ben's panting kelpie looked back at him, its tail wagging in the cool wind as the sun, paling to a mauve horizon, began its descent.

* * *

Will continued to sit there on the side of the road, nausea swimming through his body.
A dark, menacing shadow in the scrub, biding his time.
A bushman who knows the area inside and out.
A madman with a finger on the trigger.
Her grey, bloated head bobbing in the brown water…He opened the car door and vomited. Bile stuck in his throat and his lungs scorched. He drank from his near-empty water bottle. Took a deep breath, trying hard to unscramble himself. Exhaled. Nothing there.
He shook his head violently; screaming, punching the dashboard.

* * *

An hour passed and he now had Angela’s handbag in his hands, burying his face in it, breathing in her scent. Fresh tears streamed down his face, popping each spittle bubble that emerged from his mouth.
The dusk was settling in.
It was only in the diminishing light that Will reasoned with himself that he needed to make a move. He should go back. He needed to go back. She might not be dead. He could still save her and fuck the consequences.
You should have died there and then, anyway.Then, just as quickly, this flicker of bravado was doused by the realisation he didn’t have a torch, that he wouldn’t see his attacker, and a fear that kept rapping at his heart: it was utter madness to be going back in there.
And yet, how would he sleep, if he waited until the morning?
He started his car as the last strains of light disappeared. Headlights cruised past him. Will hesitated. Was that the first car to pass him since Ben pulled over?
How many potential witnesses were there?
He pulled on to the road, still with no clear plan. His fear drove the car onward, back towards the highway, and to town.
Will considered his options: he couldn’t go home, his mother would sense something was up; couldn’t book into one of the town’s motels as locals didn’t do that. And then, the question would be asked: why did Will, a local, choose to stay in a motel on the very night his girlfriend went missing?
He was nearing the outskirts of town. He could still call into the police station and explain in detail what happened.
I really should do that.To his left he could make out his cousin Craig’s farmhouse.
Maybe he has a gun. I could go back now.
He pulled in, drove his car around the back of the property, hidden from the highway.
Craig wasn’t home. He searched for a spare key. Under the backdoor mat. Electricity box. Mailbox. The outside toilet. There it was, dangling on a hook. He went inside the house, and went straight into Craig’s room. He looked under his bed, upturned his clothes drawers, rummaged through the cupboard. In the kitchen cupboard he found a torch and went out to the back shed. It was padlocked. He kicked the door down, its ruffled tin landing on a cultivator, making a racket that made him even more jumpy.
The light of the torch exposed machinery parts, tools, motorbikes, fishing rods, nets, cover girl calenders. Boxes splitting at the sides with hoarded items sat under a large work bench. And, after his eyes flashed over the shed’s entire contents once, he noticed on the second look an old slug gun nestled amongst two large tool kits. He picked it up and looked at it. He knew nothing of guns; didn’t even know how to tell if one was loaded. He walked outside, and fired into the open acreage, reeling on impact as the shot filled the air and the smell of gun powder hit his nostrils.
He walked back inside and sat down on the couch, placing the gun down next to him. Under the coffee table he noticed a tin with stickers of prickly green leaves all over it. He opened it, uncovering a large mound of grass. He shakily rolled a joint; walked back outside to light up. Thick smoke plunged into his lungs as he stared up at the star-filled night sky. He exhaled slowly. In the darkness he thought he could see shapes forming in front of his eyes. The cold night air didn’t stop the sleep tugging from at his eyelids.
He went into the kitchen and drained a glass of water and then sat back down on the couch. His head drooped forward awkwardly before he allowed it to fall back on the armrest. A deep sleep enveloped him.

* * *

The condensation dripping from the wagon’s exhaust pipe resembled that of a child's nose in winter. Fumes gushed out, evaporating in the air, mixing with the slowly lifting fog, giving form to the new day. Will was wide awake as he swerved the wagon to avoid a pothole. There was no turning back now. It was slow going though, even with his high beams visibility wasn’t great: a few metres in front at best. He felt like a kitten entering a German shephard’s lair. His pulse thumped in his wrist. He wound down the window as he approached the clearing: one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gun. He rested the rifle on the half-wound as his eyes darted in every direction in front of him.
He pulled up and turned off the ignition, keeping the lights on. Holding the gun tightly he stepped out, looking around anxiously. The area seemed untouched, as if the previous day’s events hadn’t happened.
Maybe it was all a dream.
He approached the river bank with a churning dread in his chest. Taking a deep breath he looked down over the edge and saw Angela looking back up at him, her eyes and mouth open. Her body bobbed in the rippling water amid the reeds that held her in place. He sighed a sickening sigh.
My poor Angel.Behind him he heard a twig snap. Will turned around and opened fire but the sound of shotgun was already in his ears and his stomach felt like it was on fire and then a cold blast of air shot through his gullet as he fell, on his side, into the water. The impact of his fall dislodged Angela’s body, turning her body toward his, and, as his eyes closed over, he again held her face in his hands.

* * *

Over the river bank, the Murray glistened; its calming waters only broken by the sporadic ripple of a jumping carp. And the kookaburras, camouflaged in the brown-green trees, laughed in groups.