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 killmewhen 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.
