Can’t see very far, cos of the trees, but the sky’s a slab of blue opal, with the sunjustbreaking above the gumtops.
Off to her left, a roo freezes, then turns its head to stare at her with those big brown eyes. Face a mix of deer and dog, ears twitching. Then it’s off: bounding away between the trees, tail up, the undergrowth pop-and-crackling beneath its spring-loaded paws.
Don’t know what’s gothimspooked. Not like she isn’t up here every morning.
And then Natasha smells it – a sort ofleatheryscent, with an undercurrent of something bitter and...sticky. Like snags left on the deck for months, drying out in the sun. Attracting flies.
Whatever’s dead, it’s lying in the scrub just off the path.
She steps closer.
Fat green blowflies drone through the air above a body; hard to tell if it’s a bloke or a woman, though. Must’ve been here alonnnnnnnngtime, cos the skin’s shrunken tight over the bones, tanned and split open beneath the ribcage, letting the maggots feast.
Poor bastard.
Every now and then, some old codger wanders off from the care home, gets lost in the bush, and karks it. Isn’t hunger that gets them – there’s plenty to eat, if you know where to look and you ain’t squeamish – it’s the thirst. Specially in summer, when the thermometer creeps up towards fifty.
Couple of days out here, in the heat? That’s you.
Deliria, hallucinations, muscle spasms, then one by one your internal bits-and-pieces pack in and you’re a goner.
Weird thing is, this dead bloke’s wearing a watch, just like hers. Like the one Mum gave her for her tenth birthday, with ‘NEVERLETTHEBASTARDSWIN!’ engraved on the back, cos of Dad being a totaldill.
Come to think of it, the bloke’s wearing her runners too. And the clump of hair clinging to that wizened skull is the same colour. And—
His eyes snap open and heroars.
Only it’s not a ‘bloke’, it’s Natasha’s own dead face howling back at her.
And the blowflies surge forward, answering the cry—
Natasha flinched, blinking out at the dirty barn with her one working eye. Lying on her side, left arm trapped beneath her,the other reaching out towards the tattered remains of her old mask.
Sunlight flooded in through the open door, stretching halfway across the space between her and Detective Sergeant Davis. Making the pool of blood glisten.
He lay crumpled at the foot of the table saw, skin so pale it looked like he’d painted it with white ochre, an albino crocodile lurking on the edge of a shining scarlet lake.
The airthrrrrummmmmed with the wings of a thousand bluebottles, feasting on all that blood, to a backing track of angry heavy metal – still pounding away inside the caravan.
She coughed. Dry and papery.
Come on, get up.
Get up and get out of here.
The bastard was dead. Couldn’t hurt her any more.
All. She. Had. To. Do. Was. Get.UP.
Only nothing worked.
Could barely manage more than a twitch.
Her arms and legs were carved from solid granite, her head heavier than a binful of concrete as waves of red-hot nails crashed against the inside of her skull...
At least her knee didn’t ache any more, that was something, right? Even if ithadturned into a swollen watermelon of purple and green.
And the rest of her wasn’t much better. Couldn’t even open her right eye. Couldn’t breathe through her nose. Could barely move her split and bloated lips.
