What You Wish For, page 33
‘You know, my mum died when I was six,’ Vic told him.
‘I didn’t know that.’ Brownie raised his head, met Vic’s eye. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Miss her every day.’
The lad said with a sigh, ‘Oh, yes.’
Branches cracking again, to their right this time and much, much louder. Both men instinctively scrambled to their feet. Vic risked it, stepped forward and snatched up the rifle.
Jesus, what was in there to make a commotion like that? An elephant?
At the edge of the clearing, it appeared. Stood there gazing at them, untroubled.
‘Holy—’
Vic couldn’t finish. He was conflicted. Either this was good news and he had seen that mother and calf. Or else he was hallucinating a second time, which meant all the recent shocks had permanently addled his brain and everyone was right — he was a loony.
‘It’s real.’ Brownie tone was questioning, as if he needed Vic to confirm he saw it, too.
‘I guess.’
Vic wasn’t quite yet ready to commit.
‘It’s huge,’ Brownie whispered, voice nearly an octave higher in awe.
The moose calmly bent to graze. Guess it knew it didn’t have to be afraid. One swat from that head or kick from those hooves and Vic and Brownie would be two jellied sacks of broken bones. Nothing to do but keep still and watch it eat grass. If it came towards them — well, hopefully, Vic would be able to come up with a Plan B.
‘God, it’s beautiful,’ said Brownie. ‘Like something out of another time.’
Absolutely correct. Vic felt a surge of elation. How fortunate he was. How privileged. As if to make up for handing him a pile of shit, God, nature, fate — who or whatever — had given him this. It had given him Brownie, alive, and now a second miracle. A joyous, liberating vision that made anything seem possible.
And then a low, horribly familiar voice in his ear, said ‘Don’t move a fucking inch.’
Of course. How could Vic have imagined for a second that he was lucky? He was the winner of the booby prize. Haw, haw, haw.
‘No way,’ hissed Brownie, and he made a lunge for Rob’s rifle. Rob, with surprising agility for a bloke his age, booted the lad right in the guts, and Brownie sat down heavily, too winded to even gasp.
Without a second thought, Vic raised the rifle in his hand and aimed it at Rob’s head.
‘Put it down,’ he said.
Rob didn’t flinch, didn’t even glance at him. Kept his gun trained square on the moose, and quietly scoffed.
‘Sure, Vic. You’re going to shoot me. Right.’
‘You’re not going to kill that animal, Rob,’ said Vic.
‘Can’t now,’ Rob agreed. ‘It’s facing me. Need a broadside shot.’
Then he muttered, ‘Come on, you fucker. Turn to the side.’
Brownie was on his knees now, clutching his abdomen, trying to suck air back into his lungs. Vic could yell at the moose, try to startle it, but soon as it turned to run, Rob would shoot it. Why couldn’t it have been a normal animal that vamoosed at the first sight of humans? It was almost as if it was used to them.
Oh, shit, it was ambling around to reach a fresh patch of grass. Vic saw Rob tense in readiness. But the bastard was right — Vic wouldn’t shoot him. Even if he aimed for an arm, at this distance the shot would most likely do mortal damage. The rifle was a .243 calibre Remington. Powerful and accurate. Vic had one exactly like it.
Vic had read books where dramatic events seemed to unfold in slow motion, but turned out that was complete bollocks. The ensuing sequence played out so fast, he couldn’t follow it. Far as he could tell, the moose turned and Brownie leapt up, just as a bullet twanged with an unholy thunk against the stock of Rob’s rifle, sending it flying out of his hands. The moose reared and skedaddled, Rob swore and made a dive for his rifle, whereupon he tripped over Brownie, now lying on the ground, and sprawled flat next to him. And then, somehow, Jacko Reid was there — did he kick Rob in the head? Vic wasn’t sure, but Rob seemed to be unconscious now, and Jacko was on his knees next to Brownie and yelling at Vic to help him.
Shit. The lad had been shot. The bullet — Jacko’s, Vic could only assume — had bounced off Rob’s rifle and hit Brownie in the upper arm.
‘Only nicked him, thank fuck.’
Jacko handed Vic his rifle, slung the pack off his shoulder and began rummaging in it. So many weapons; Vic dithered about what to do, and decided to sling them all over his shoulder. Rob was moaning on the ground, and Vic was sorely tempted to kick him again. But it was two of them against one now, and the moose had gone. Rob would kick up a fuss but too bad. Nothing else he could do.
Brownie was sitting up now, grey-faced and sweaty, while Jacko expertly wrapped his arm in a bandage. From his first-aid kit, he plucked painkillers, a bar of chocolate and one of those silver foil blankets.
‘Get these down you.’ He handed Brownie the painkillers and a bottle of water, and then wrapped the blanket round the lad’s shoulders. ‘Shock,’ he explained, and broke off squares of chocolate for him to eat. ‘How’re you feeling?’ Jacko said, when the chocolate was gone.
‘Hurts,’ said Brownie, succinctly.
‘Yeah, it does,’ Jacko agreed. He got off his knees, sat down with a whoosh. ‘Jesus. Nearly had a fucking heart attack when you leapt up like that. You are fucking lucky, my friend. Could have been the end of you.’
Brownie and Vic’s eyes met, and Vic could read the message there, clear as day. He nodded, smiled to reassure. Their secret.
‘Count our blessings, eh?’ Vic said.
Rob, still moaning, had rolled over and was clutching his head. Jacko gazed upon him with distaste.
‘Think you can walk?’ he said to Brownie. ‘Vic and I will prop you up. It’s just the air’s getting a little rank around here. And I badly need a beer.’
‘Sure,’ said Brownie. ‘I think …’
‘Oh, and you know that thing we saw?’ said Jacko. ‘We never saw it. Did we, Vic?’
‘Nothing but birds out here,’ Vic said.
Jacko chuckled.
‘That’s the story. Come on—’ He helped a shaky Brownie to his feet. ‘You need to see the doc. But first, cold beer and a sit down at Vic’s place. I’ll get Dr G to meet us there.’
‘On a Sunday?’ said Vic.
‘Why not?’ Jacko said. ‘It’s not like he has anything better to do.’
CHAPTER 37
Ash
The prairie vole of North America, unlike most of its promiscuous rodent kin, mated for life. Science put this down to the presence in the vole of a particular hormone known as vasopressin, which in its less romantic capacity also controlled thirst. Vasopressin was the reason prairie voles indulged in more sex than was strictly necessary for the purposes of reproduction. The hormone was also, Ash guessed, the reason why he and Emma had not ventured even a step out into the bush, but had flung themselves at each other like — well, not prairie voles, some other less fluffy wild creature — and had not left his bed for the past four hours.
There were other hormones, too, at play in the field of sexual attraction — serotonin, dopamine, adrenaline, oxytocin — but as far as Ash was concerned, his medical knowledge could go hang. Sex with Emma was a sublime encounter, akin to a mystical awakening. It was an experience, as a Hindu guru might say, unable to be grasped by mere intellect alone, numinous but unclouded, a moment where perception and sensation fused in one supreme, perfect union.
‘Where do you keep your bog roll?’ Emma called from the lavatory.
‘Er, is there none on the handle of the toilet brush?’
‘Nup. All out.’
‘One moment.’
Ash pushed back the covers and resumed contact with reality. Pulled on his boxer briefs and trotted off to open up the twelve-pack of Plush in the hall cupboard.
The toilet door was ajar, but he knocked anyway, before pushing it open just enough to hand over the roll.
‘Thanks, man,’ said Emma. ‘Hey, triple ply. Nice.’
‘I, er, I’ll go and take a shower,’ he said, clearly less comfortable than she was about conversing through a toilet door.
‘Yeah, we’re both pretty funky,’ said Emma. ‘I’ll hop in after.’
Which was a relief, as Ash had lost his taste for shower sex some years back, after an incident involving a soap-on-a-rope that he shuddered to recall.
The bathroom was next door, but as Ash reached to turn on the shower, he heard his mobile. He considered letting it ring, but after a swift calculation, realised it was the small hours of the morning in Ahmedabad. Even if someone had died, he’d be the last to be rung out of a long list, so it was safe to assume the caller was not a relative. Must be someone who needed an emergency after-hours visit. He jogged back to the bedroom and answered.
‘I see,’ was all he could say in response to the information imparted. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
Emerging from the bedroom, he found Emma gloriously naked in the hall, and had to suppress the regret (and hormones) that instantly arose. But there would be other opportunities. He hoped.
‘That was your father,’ he said.
‘Dad?’
Emma rushed up.
‘Is he OK? Why’s he ringing you? Is Mum OK?’
‘Yes, yes, they’re fine.’
Ash embraced her, kissed her temple.
‘Barrett Tahana has been shot—’
‘What? Fuck!’
‘He’s also fine. But your father would like me to take a look at the wound. He’s at Vic Halsworth’s cottage. I said I’d drive up now.’
He hesitated. Emma had told him everything that had transpired over the past week.
‘Would you like to come with me?’
‘Definitely,’ she said, though he could see the anxiety in her eyes. ‘Probably should put some clothes on, though, huh.’
Any room, including the hundred thousand square-metre London Millennium Dome, would feel small with Jacko Reid in it. But as Willow Cottage was designed for two average-sized people comfortable with each other’s proximity, the word ‘cramped’ could be aptly applied. Barrett had been laid on the sofa, and when Ash and Emma arrived, Jacko and Vic were forced into the narrow galley kitchen, from whence could be heard the occasional muffled curse as one or other of them knocked his head on the rangehood.
Ash, in professional mode, went straight to Barrett and began to inspect the arm. Glancing up, he noted that his patient’s attention was elsewhere directed, and in a manner that must be described as riveted. Swivelling, Ash saw that Emma had remained in the doorway. She had eyes only for her father, and her expression was one of pure poignant woe.
‘Come here, you.’
Her father held out his arms and she launched herself into them, wrapped her own arms around his neck (he’d bent to allow it) and sobbed on his shoulder.
‘I’m so-rry,’ she said, each syllable a damp hiccup. ‘I was stu-u-pid.’
Ash observed Vic looking perplexed. As far as Emma was aware, only her parents, Casey Marshall and Tai Te Wera knew about her involvement with the website, and anyone else they may have told could be relied on for discretion. Vic had suffered enough, in Ash’s opinion. He could be spared an explanation.
‘It’s OK.’ Jacko held his daughter tight. ‘You’re still my best girl.’
Words that sent Ash’s nerves a-flutter. Dear Lord, what if Jacko did not approve of Ash and Emma? There’d be no other option —he’d have to leave town. Most sensibly in the dead of night.
‘Ow, Doc,’ came a gentle protest.
‘Sorry.’
Ash released his vice-like grip on Barrett’s wrist. His own pulse was pounding too hard for him to get a reading anyway. Best take the blood pressure instead.
Examination over, Ash pronounced his verdict.
‘You’re extremely lucky. It is a flesh wound only and not that deep. Nowhere near the brachial artery. Jacko’s first-aid was excellent, but I will give you these painkillers to tide you over, and these antibiotics to ensure there is no residual infection. Are your tetanus shots up to date?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Barrett, without enthusiasm.
‘Come to the surgery tomorrow, and I will give you a booster.’
‘Oh, joy.’
‘Do you also need a ride home?’ Ash asked. ‘To Gene’s house?’
‘He’s welcome to stay here.’
Vic stood by the sofa.
Barrett glanced up at Vic, and his smile overlaid gratitude with regret.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘But I’d better get back. I’ve got a bit of explaining to do.’
‘They’ll understand,’ said Vic.
‘Yes, they probably will,’ said Barrett, softly. ‘Bogeymen tend to disappear when you turn the light on, don’t they?’
Now it was Ash’s turn to be perplexed, but whatever was passing between the two was none of his business.
He straightened up and turned to Emma, whose apologetic expression told him that she would not be returning to his bed today.
But she did move close and kiss him on the mouth in lingering fashion. Ash didn’t dare glance at anyone to see how that had been received.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Dad’s parked down by the river, and I’ll walk with him. I need some quality family time.’
‘Of course,’ said Ash. ‘Call me when you’re ready.’
She gave him such a radiant smile that every hormone in his body fully activated, even the ones that regulated cell apoptosis and circadian rhythm. Ash hoped fervently, as he farewelled the pair, that Emma would be ready soon.
‘Would you like to leave now, too?’ he asked Barrett. ‘Or wait a while? I don’t mind.’
‘Now, please,’ Barrett replied. ‘Before I lose my nerve.’
‘You should chat to the doc,’ said Vic. ‘On the way.’
Barrett swallowed. He’d become increasingly hollow-eyed, and Ash was about to suggest they wait after all. He could use the time to compose an email to his mother. One that was courteous but unambiguous in every respect.
But then Barrett eased himself, wincing, off the sofa, and gave Ash a wan grin.
‘OK, Doc, let’s hit the road. How are you at driving and listening?’
‘Oh, you know, on a day such as this,’ said Ash. ‘I feel capable of mastering anything.’
CHAPTER 38
Devon
‘Are you going to almost die every year?’
This from Jenna, Gene’s youngest daughter, aged ten. The Collins clan, including Brownie, was gathered in their kitchen around a stack of food that could feed them all twice over. Devon had been invited as Brownie’s mate, and he’d accepted, despite feeling like a fraud.
(And a cuckolder, let’s not forget that, even though Moana assured him that nothing had happened on her and Brownie’s date.
‘Yeah, no chemistry,’ she’d said. ‘He’s cute, but — nada, zip.’
‘Cute as me?’ Devon couldn’t help himself.
‘Don’t be a dick.’
(Yep, Mo had zero tolerance for Devon’s bullshit. Good thing, too.)
Brownie had taken Jenna’s question in his stride.
‘Not planning to make a habit of it, no,’ he said. ‘But then, I didn’t plan to fall off a mountain or get hit by a ricocheting bullet, either, so who knows?’
‘Jen-na,’ said Gene’s eldest, Billie, fifteen and Ninja-level eye-roller. ‘You’re such a spaz.’
‘Girls,’ said their mother, Liz, in a tone that brooked no denial.
‘Did getting shot hurt?’ said Frankie, twelve, the middle daughter.
‘Yes,’ said Brownie.
‘More than breaking heaps of bones?’
Frankie’s role model was apparently Wednesday from the Addams Family.
‘Guess whose bones I’m thinking of breaking right now?’ said her mother, cheerfully.
‘That’s child abuse,’ said Jenna, picking minuscule traces of egg yolk out of her potato salad. ‘We can report you.’
‘See what happens when you teach children to think for them selves?’ remarked Gene. ‘Should have stuck to the old ways —lifelong psychological scarring and repression never hurt anyone.’
Devon saw Brownie’s eyes flicker briefly in his direction, and wondered what that meant. It was exactly a week since the shooting, details of which had not been divulged by any of the participants. Hunting accident was the official verdict, and if Casey Marshall knew any different, she wasn’t saying, either. Why Jacko, Vic Halsworth and Brownie had happened to meet in the same part of the bush and whose gun had fired the shot would remain matters for speculation. As would the cause of the livid bruising down one side of Rob Hanrahan’s face.
Gene knew, Devon could tell. But then Jacko was his best mate, and they didn’t keep secrets from one another. And Brownie was sort of his unofficial ward. Devon’s woo-wah wasn’t giving him any specific clues, just an all-purpose signal that something big had gone down and its repercussions were still vibrating in the airwaves.
As the last of the dessert was being scraped from plates, the front door bell rang. Jenna hopped off her chair.
‘I’ll get it!’
‘If it’s Jehovah’s Witnesses,’ Gene called after her. ‘Ask them how much they’d pay to take you girls away with them.’
After an inaudible interaction at the front door, Jenna re-entered the kitchen.
‘It’s a man,’ she announced, got back on her chair, and reached for the ice-cream.
‘Name?’ said her mother.
Jenna licked the serving spoon. ‘I forget.’
‘Duh, you spaz,’ said Billie.
‘It’s probably a murderer,’ said Frankie. ‘And Jenna’s let him in.’
Sighing heavily, Liz got up. Seconds later, she was back. Trailing sheepishly behind her was Vic Halsworth.
‘Vic!’ hailed Gene. ‘Have a seat.’
Vic looked like he’d been invited to give a scorpion a lift across a river, but then, he always did look like he’d just been bitten on the bum.
