‘Mummy?’
Whitlam couldn’t believe it, he could not believe it. The kid was here.The kid was here.Why the hell wasn’t he far away, safe on the other side of town, playing in Whitlam’s own backyard? Instead he was here. And he’d seen, and now Whitlam had to make it as though he hadn’t seen and there was only one way he could think of to do that, andareyou happy now, you nosey bitch, he screamed at Karen’s body as Billy turned and belted down the hall, too scared to cry so making ghoulish gasping little sighs instead.
Whitlam felt as though he’d stepped out of his body. He followed and burst into the bedroom, almost unseeing as he flung open cupboard doors, ripped off the bedspread. Where was he? Where was he? He was angry, furious, at what he was being made to do. A sound came from the laundry basket, and Whitlam couldn’t remember pushing it aside, but he must have because there was Billy. Billy, pressed against the wall, his face in his hands. But Whitlam remembered pulling the trigger. Yes. Later he would remember that well.
There was the dreadful ringing in his head again, and again – oh dear God, please no – something else. He thought for a hideous moment the cries were coming from Billy, who was missing half his head and chest. He wondered if he was making them himself, but when he put his hand to his mouth it was closed.
He followed the noise, almost curiously, across the hall. The child was in the nursery, standing in her cot, bawling. Whitlam stood in the doorway and thought he might vomit.
He positioned the barrel of the gun towards his own chin and held it there, feeling the heat radiate off the metal, until the urge passed. Slowly, he turned the weapon around. It wobbled as he trained it on the baby’s yellow jumpsuit. He took a breath. The chaos in his head was deafening but amid the noise was a single urgent note of reason. Look! He made himself pause. He blinked once. Look at her age. And listen. She’s crying. Crying, not talking. No words. She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t tell.
It scared him that in that instant, he was still tempted.
‘Bang,’ he whispered to himself. He heard a scary laugh but when he looked there was no-one else around.
Whitlam turned and ran. Over Karen’s body and out to Luke’s ute and then behind the wheel and roaring out onto the country road. He passed no-one and drove until the jitters got too strong for him to hold the wheel. He took the next turnoff he saw. A pathetic track leading to a small clearing.
Whitlam climbed out and dragged his bike from the ute, his teeth chattering in his skull. With shaking hands he threw back the tarpaulin, obscuring four horizontal streaks left against the paintwork as the bike’s wheels had shifted and moved during the journey.
Whitlam steeled himself and leaned over the body. There was no movement. He peered at Luke’s face, so close that he could see where the other man had cut himself shaving. He felt no whisper of air. Luke had stopped breathing.
Whitlam pulled on new gloves and a plastic rain poncho, then dragged the body to the edge of the tray. He hauled it with some trouble into a slumped seated position. Shotgun between Luke’s legs, his fingertips pressed to the weapon, the barrel propped against his teeth.
Whitlam was terrified the body would slip and crumple, and had the bizarre thought that he should have practised this somehow. Then he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. Luke’s face disappeared and his body fell backwards. The blow to the back of his skull was lost in the mess. It was done. Whitlam crammed his gloves, poncho and the tarpaulin into a plastic bag to burn later. Then he took three deep breaths and wheeled his bike onto the empty road.
As he rode away, the blowflies were already starting to circle.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Whitlam’s office was empty. His wallet was gone, along with his keys and phone. His jacket still hung from the back of the chair.
‘Perhaps he’s popped out,’ said a nervous secretary. ‘His car’s still here.’
‘He hasn’t,’ said Falk. ‘Barnes, you get to his house. If his wife’s there, detain her.’ He thought for a moment. Turned back to the secretary.
‘Is Whitlam’s daughter still in class?’
‘Yes, I believe s–’
‘Show me. Now.’
The secretary was forced to jog down the corridor to keep pace with Falk and Raco.
‘Here,’ she said breathlessly at a classroom door. ‘She’s in here.’
‘Which one?’ Falk said, searching through the small window for the child he’d seen in Whitlam’s family photo.
‘There.’ She pointed. ‘Blonde girl, second row.’
Falk turned to Raco.
‘Would he leave town without his child?’
‘Hard to say. But I don’t think so. Not if he could help it.’
‘I agree. I think he’s close.’ Falk paused. ‘Call Clyde. They must be nearly here. Get roadblocks out, then gather everyone we can get with search and rescue experience.’
Raco followed Falk’s gaze out of the window. Behind the school the bushland sprawled dense and heavy. It seemed to shiver in the heat. It gave nothing away.
