Yes.
Do I think the hordeof bootlicking bullies who worshipped power, tormented the weak and hated immigrants even when we were kids would be involved in a migrant worker scandal?
Yes.
I’m right. I know I’m right. I’m standing up against the mouth of this thing, and I can feel it widening in front of me, the dirty roots torn bare, just waiting for someone to explore them.
“Dark seeds sprout twisted trees,” I mutter to no one.
My voice is husky from screaming at Grace to run. I cough into my fist and search my pockets for my vape, swearing when I realise Grace has it. I’m glad I gave it to her, but this isnotthe time for me to go into nicotine withdrawal.
I open my phone, and the map helpfully informs me there’s a pub two kilometers away with a cigarette machine. I tap the destination and pull back out onto the road. I don’t love punching darts, but I’ll take what I can get. Besides, it seems appropriate for an amateur detective on a hot streak to be waving a cigarette around.
21
Ada
The pub is a tiny bluestone leftover from colonial settler days. Its car park’s jam-packed, considering it’s barely eleven in the morning. But then it’s a Friday, and a bunch of tradies have probably knocked off early to get blasted, as living above Stabbies has shown they’re wont to do.
I park at the edge of the unsealed gravel next to a massive Dodge RAM. I’m craving a drink almost as much as nicotine, but as soon as I enter the pub, I know I shouldn’t have come here. At least two dozen men in hi-vis are sitting around the mismatched wooden tables. Silence falls as they, and the Viking-looking redhead bartender, all turn to look at me. Some seem curious, but most faces are unfriendly and more than a few are familiar. I look away before I can come up with any names. Sweat breaks out in my armpits. There’s a woodfire burning in the corner and the whole place is uncomfortably warm. Claustrophobic. But I doubt that’s why I’m sweating. I need to leave.
I force a wide smile but before I can giggle and say‘Oops, this isn’tSephora!’I spot the cigarette machine. Craving rises in me like a tide and battles with my common sense. As usual, craving wins. I make a beeline for the machine, male eyes scraping across my face and body as I walk. I’m extra-glad for my thick pants and heavy jacket as I bend to select Pall Malls. I search for the card-tapping bit and can’t find it anywhere.
“Need cash,” an old bloke grunts, his voice echoing around the painfully quiet room. There’s no music playing. Why is there no music playing? Sweating harder than ever, I head for the bar where the Viking redhead studies me like I’m listeria.
“Can I please get some cash out?” I ask.
“Have to buy a drink to do that.”
I’m sure I’ve never met him but his thick beard and dark eyes remind me of Thrasher. Maybe a cousin? A brother? I have no intention of sticking around to find out.
I slide my card across the bar. “Half shot of Maker’s and fifty bucks, please?”
The Viking takes my Visa without a word, and I slip into the nearby bathroom before anyone else can talk to me. I pee and check myself in the mirror. I look normal, which is weird because my hair should be white and standing on end. I shouldn’t have come here so soon after leaving Thrasher’s farm. I shouldn’t have come at all. I especially shouldn’t have stayed. Not for cigarettes. Not for anything.
“It’s fine,” I tell myself in the mirror. “We’ll be gone in two seconds.”
My reflection disagrees. She doesn’t think it’ll be that easy, and the bitch is probably right. I grip the knuckledusters in my side pocket then release them. What am I going to do with bright purple knuckledusters? Hit someone? The last person I hit was Jenny Wallis, and she still nearly got the better of me. I can’t punch one, let alone a dozen grown men, and not be instantly killed in retaliation. My limbs go stiff, terror locking me into place as it so often does when I overestimate my abilities. I force myself to move, to shove open the grottybathroom door and walk back to the bar.
My drink, cash and card are all waiting for me on the counter. The Viking smirks as I approach. “So, you’re Ada, huh?”
He knows my name. He obviously saw it on my bank card, and now he, and everyone in this pub, knows who I am.
“It’s actually pronounced ‘Adolf,’” I say, shooting the whiskey. “Cheers.”
I grab the cash and return to the cigarette machine. Maybe I’m imagining it, but this place seems to have grown even smaller and warmer. The walls closing in. The air putrefying around me. I punch the Pall Mall button and shove the fifty-dollar note into the slot. The seconds it takes for the packet to drop and the change to collect in the coin chute feel like an eternity. I snatch both and head for the door at top speed. I don’t care how insane or suspicious I look, I need to fucking leave. But just as my reflection predicted, it’s not that easy. A ruddy-faced, bearded dude steps in front of me.
“You were just up at the farm, weren’t ya, Ada?”
Like with Xavier’s demands for me to stop running away, the smartest parts of me know nothing good will come from engaging with this man. I smile apologetically as I duck around him and through the door. It’s mercifully cold outside, and I’m almost at Cece’s car, when I hear the guy. “Ada?”
I half-turn and wave. “In a hurry, sorry.”
“Hang on, you need a light, don’t you?”
I didn’t realise I was unwrapping my cigarettes until he said it, or that I’ve got no way of consuming them without portable fire. The fact that this man, whoever he is, seems to know that brings me to a stop.
“Light?” the guy repeats, walking toward me.
