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  ‘I want to—’

  ‘Wait in the ute. We have to make sure that there are no… animals living in there.’ It was the insects she was more worried about. But Dylan was at the age where he was more afraid of things that were bigger than him than smaller.

  ‘But I don’t—’

  ‘There’s a KitKat in the esky,’ she said. That finally broke the resistance, the boy pulling away from her, not in the direction of the house but in the direction of the ute and the ice-cold chocolate bar that awaited in the cooler. It would keep him occupied for a few minutes, enough time for her to figure out what the hell was going on.

  She turned back to the doorway. The laughing drunk continued mocking her foolishness. She was reminded of Lorcan’s grandfather, the Irishman who was unable to pronounce her name and took to calling her Neeve, a disrespect she lived with for the sake of family appeasement. He had died not long after their wedding. She had used the excuse of being pregnant to avoid going to the funeral.

  ‘Lorc?’

  She tested the front step. It was solid underfoot, maybe the only solid part of the whole structure. Again a multitude of horrors that could have befallen her husband choked her thoughts. Could she and Dylan drag him out from under a wall if needed? She doubted it. The thought of being without him suddenly seemed real and distressing. Was that a sign she loved and needed him? Or that out here he had suddenly become of use once again, that his physicality – one of the reasons she had been attracted to him in the first place – would be essential to their survival?

  Leaning in she went to poke her head around the door. She would call out again before entering. As if asking permission of the previous owners so as to not disturb their ghosts.

  ‘Lor—?’

  A face popped into view.

  Stepping back and almost falling off the front step, she screamed.

  The face was smiling, and almost demented with glee.

  Lorcan came to the front door and looked out. A grin that she thought looked almost evil was stuck on his face.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ he said.

  6 Naiyana

  Lorcan led her into the house by the hand. Whereas Dylan couldn’t pull her, her husband certainly could, the loose T-shirt he wore masking a set of broad shoulders and strong arms. The arms of a farmer as Seamus, her father-in-law, often said, though neither of them had been near a farm in their lives. In fact as far as she was aware, this was the closest any of the Maguire family had come to country living.

  They left Dylan outside with the job of finishing off his chocolate bar and pulling the weeds that were growing in the crack between the ground and the edge of the building. After first checking for spiders and snakes of course. It didn’t fill her with confidence that the first check was for spiders and snakes. Not a hole in the wall or a major structural defect, just that there was nothing venomous that might incapacitate or kill their only child.

  Her bigger child, Lorcan, was bounding around, ultra-keen to get started. Like the obscure law about adverse possession, he had read up about renovating a house; everything from bricklaying to plastering to simple wiring. She didn’t doubt that he had a basic understanding of it all but the house needed a lot of work. More than he could manage. More than both of them could manage. Especially in six weeks. Twelve at the most. However long it took for things to die down.

  The living room was covered in dust, anything of value removed. The wooden floor creaked loudly but after a few tentative steps she was confident that it would hold out. As long as they didn’t throw any wild parties. Which out here wasn’t likely. She couldn’t help but think that their crossroads kangaroo might have died from boredom.

  The hallway and bedrooms were in a similar condition, the dry air and the roof maintaining them reasonably well. She suddenly found some positivity creeping in. What could be done replaced what needed to be done and where she found herself. This was the get-up-and-go disposition that had proved such a boon when infiltrating animal testing centres, protesting refugee conditions and campaigning for weeks on end. This was the firebrand she had rediscovered in the last couple of years after staying home to raise Dylan. The teenage Naiyana had returned. And then she had overstepped the mark. People had suffered because of it. Even Lorcan.

  A final insult was out back, separate from the house. The toilet. Consisting of a tin shed over a hole in the ground. A thunderbox according to her husband. That was what she was reduced to. At least the years of disuse had eliminated any stench. A small mercy. And it had four walls, unlike the worst affected room. The kitchen. There the top part of the gable wall had collapsed, cracked from the effects of frost or extreme heat, Lorcan suggested. With it the roof had sagged losing a few sheets of tin and exposing it to the sun, the moon and the elements. The kitchen would remain semi-outdoors. Until Lorcan could get the wall and roof fixed. After they had cleared and swept the house and laid traps for anything that might have been lurking in the corners.

  There was a house in here somewhere. Maybe a home. She could visualize it. And that was the first step. It had to be.

  7 Lorcan

  ‘A book?’

  ‘Yeah, a book. About us setting up home out here.’

  ‘For six weeks,’ she reminded him. In return, he gave her a non-committal nod. If he could get the house up and running and Dylan into the local school – wherever that was – he could argue for them to stay until the end of term. Eighteen weeks. Then next term. And the term after that. If they liked it.

  ‘What sparked this brainwave?’ she continued.

  Lorcan watched as she put the plastic crate that was filled with plates and cutlery down. After three hours of sweeping dust and dead insects from all the rooms they were transporting their stuff in from the ute, sheltering from the early afternoon sun. Already Dylan had quit, parking himself behind the wheel of the ute pretending to drive it, the window cranked down to make sure air circled, like he was a dog. It would have been embarrassing. Had anyone been around to see it.

  He put his hand on the old table they had dragged from the living room to the kitchen. It would do as a dining table. Once it had been given a good clean. They had brought enough anti-bac to suffocate the whole town. One of Nee’s stipulations in agreeing to come.

  ‘I was just thinking,’ he started.

  ‘Thinking got us into this mess.’

  He pushed the box with the two-ring camping stove and cooking utensils to the middle of the table. It creaked. He would have to look at tightening the screws. No one wanted it to collapse in the middle of dinner.

  ‘I’ll take some video too as an add-on exclusive to the book. Extra content.’

  This was intended to pique her interest. Vlogging was Naiyana’s thing and she’d had plenty of practice in some challenging situations, recording the raids of testing centres, disrupting companies and corporations. A dangerous occupation. And he should know. He had worked for a vicious crook.

  ‘What do you know about writing a book? You barely read, never mind write.’

  ‘It isn’t fiction. I don’t have to make it up. Just tell the truth.’

  ‘Once you fix this place up so we can live in it,’ she reminded him.

  ‘As well as.’

  Lorcan watched his wife pause, shake her head and then shrug. She hadn’t given up, just realized that there was nowhere to go. No common ground. They would stay at the opposite ends of this argument. But he was determined to have the last word. He had plans. Repairing the house and their family.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said, holding his hand out.

  ‘Let’s get this finished,’ she protested but he spread his arms and ushered her out the front door.

  Dylan was still behind the wheel of the ute, bouncing up and down as if manoeuvring over particularly bumpy terrain, shouting at imaginary people to get out of the way as he made his urgent delivery.

  Turning her around, he pointed to the house that was now in front of them.

  ‘First I’ll set up
the generator so that we have electricity. Then I’ll mend the gable wall and fix the roof. Then I’ll get to work on the inside. Plaster, tile, build furniture.’

  ‘And water?’

  ‘We passed a well.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Close to where Skippy keeled over.’

  She tilted her head at him but it forced a smile from her, dragging the sweetness back to a face he had fallen in love with all those years ago that now only briefly returned after accomplishing all the chores an adult had to do. Your love goes to your kid first and what’s left goes to your partner. Or football. Or golf.

  ‘We can make do with the bottled water for the time being,’ he said, wedging a giant plastic container of water under each arm and hauling them inside.

  8 Emmaline

  Suddenly the instruction to take a left at the dead kangaroo made sense. Emmaline pulled up outside the bungalow. Although it was in a state of disrepair, it was practically a mansion compared to the rest of the town.

  As she exited the 4x4 and stretched legs that cried out with joy after being in a cramped airplane and behind the wheel for the last four hours, a couple of local cops filtered out from their own vehicle. She had been informed their names were Rispoli and Barker. Their crisp, clean shirts indicated they had been basking in the delights of air con while they waited for her.

  As a detective from the MCS, she held rank. What she didn’t know was what she would be working with.

  As she walked towards them they stayed in formation on either side of the vehicle as if afraid she was going to steal it. Maybe they hadn’t been expecting a dark-skinned police officer. Or maybe that was her own bias talking. Or previous experience, her dad eyed with outright suspicion even when on council business, his authority and presence questioned.

  ‘Tell me what you know that you think I might not.’

  This was a question to gauge competence. If she had been in their shoes she would tell her everything. Always assume that the new entrant doesn’t know what has happened. Half-telling a story provided room for something to be left out. Possibly something major.

  The older one, Barker – a senior constable, given the two stripes on his upper arm – glanced at the younger one. His lined face wore years of worry. Someone who didn’t like dealing with superiors. Possibly jealousy, possibly afraid of saying the wrong thing. Or conscious of an upcoming retirement and the lovely safe pension beyond the fence. ‘We have cordoned off the crime scene.’

  Emmaline looked at the tape. It was shuffling in the gentle breeze holding back precisely no one from entering. But it was correct protocol. She hoped they had been smart enough not to contaminate the scene. ‘Seal it, log it and step away’ as her staff sergeant had taught her.

  ‘Anything inside?’

  ‘No bodies,’ said Barker.

  An instant leap to the most severe outcome. He had already made up his mind. Not good practice. Or wise at this early stage.

  ‘And what do we know about the mispers’ last movements?’

  It was Rispoli’s turn to speak. He was maybe a year or two younger than Emmaline and hitched his back a little straighter to answer her. Maybe a military background. Maybe good etiquette. Maybe taking his cue from his more experienced partner. She didn’t get a confident feeling from either. They looked frightened, overwhelmed.

  ‘The father’s family called it in. Last contact was a phone call on Christmas Day.’

  ‘So, ten days ago.’

  There was a joint nod from the officers.

  ‘No contact since?’

  ‘None. The father stated that he and his wife had been scheduled to visit Boxing Day but that his son, Lorcan Maguire, phoned on Christmas Day and cancelled.’

  ‘Pretty odd.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Anything on how the mispers were acting?’

  Rispoli continued. ‘I quote: “I could hear that wife of his in the background. There seemed to be some tension but nothing more than normal.” ’

  Which raised the immediate question: what was normal? It meant different things to different people. Her own aunt and uncle in Cape Town fought all the time but that was what they needed to be sure that they were listening to each other. They had been married forty years. And had never once disappeared off the face of the earth.

  ‘Seamus Maguire also noted that his son asked for a couple of thousand dollars to help pay for some materials for the house. But overall, the impression he got was that the family seemed determined to make a go of it.’

  So a family determined to make a go of life out here but with an underlying tension in the air. Emmaline took a deep breath. It was time for action. The last contact with the family had been ten days ago. It was time to uncover something more recent.

  ‘I want you to dig up any transactions or use of bank cards during the last few weeks. Phone logs too. See if there has been any movement. If they’re somewhere else, we can track them.’

  The officers nodded.

  Emmaline glanced around. Something important was missing. Transport.

  ‘Find out what vehicle they own. And put out a KLO4 on the number plate.’

  Emmaline studied the house again. It would take a day or two to gather the information. Right now all she had was what was in front of her.

  9 Emmaline

  Emmaline couldn’t believe that anyone would choose to live here. She had seen more structurally sound – and tidier – crack dens. What had it been like before they started work on it? It probably said a lot about the family. They weren’t afraid of hard work, or afraid of very much at all. Coming all the way out here and building a life. It made their sudden disappearance all the stranger.

  In addition it would have taken patience to build a house. A patience she lacked, perfection hard to attain and fleeting when reached. This she blamed on the ballet lessons her parents had pushed her into when she was nine years old. The only black kid in the class, wearing flesh-coloured ballet pumps that didn’t match her skin colour and made it look like she was some burn victim wearing hideous bandages on her feet. Nowadays of course they made pumps for a range of skin tones. As ever, the world was twenty years behind where she needed it to be.

  Ballet had been the ‘in’ thing at the time and her parents – new to the country, him Black South African and her English Rose pale – had wanted Emmaline to fit in so that they could develop connections. As a result she had spent four years prancing around, pimped out for the aspiration of middle-class anonymity. But ballet was a tough gig. Where nothing but perfection was acceptable. In other arts and sports results were prized over perfection but a missed step was like murder. It eventually tore her away from ballet and left her with the stanza that achievement was more important than perfection. Which she took into her police work. How the job was done played second fiddle to getting the job done.

  Overall, the house was a mess. It looked to have been ransacked, cupboards and drawers scattered across the floor, camp beds flipped onto their sides and the thin mattresses slashed. A wardrobe in what she guessed had been Dylan’s room was torn apart, the contents strewn. Someone had been looking for something. Something not of obvious value either; personal items, pictures, ornaments and even a small box of jewellery untouched. As if the family had left in a hurry. Or been taken without warning.

  The kitchen was in a similar state. At the far end the roof sagged, a missing sheet of tin allowing the blue sky to peep through. In the corner was a pile of swept rubble and a collapsed table. Something violent had occurred here. The blood smeared on the pieces of smashed mirror all but confirmed that.

  Emmaline turned to Rispoli. He had been following her around the house like a shadow, while Barker called in the details she had requested.

  ‘Have you bagged and tagged a sample?’

  ‘Already done.’

  Emmaline leaned in closer. The blood was smeared across the glass and ingrained with dust, washing the threatening red to a harmless brown. The quantity
wasn’t enough to suggest significant injury but any loss of blood was cause for concern. Especially as no attempt had been made to clean it up. Forensics would check the rest of the house for residue. A visible patch of blood was worrisome, but a larger patch of cleaned-up blood elsewhere in the house might signal something worse.

  10 Naiyana

  The bed was uncomfortable, the mattress nothing but foam covered in a man-made fibre that stuck to her skin like glue.

  In an attempt to foster some marital order Lorcan had pushed the camp beds together but the thick metal poles left a large crevice in the middle.

  She lay back and stared at the ceiling. After unloading the ute, sweeping and tidying the house she had expected to be tired but sleep was miles away and not helped by Dylan in the other bedroom. He was complaining of noises, rattling from above and rumblings from below. She put it down to first-night nerves, the adjustment period she had feared. At least there weren’t any neighbours to gripe about the crying.

  As a result she was awake as Lorcan read her a bedtime story using the battery-powered lamp. A history of the town. Disappointingly it wasn’t brief.

  ‘In 1893 they discovered gold and started mining. By 1896 the town site was declared by the government and gazetted a year later. Back then the only way in and out was a bi-weekly coach from Hurton to Wisbech and on south to Kalgoorlie.’

  She tried to drift off but Lorcan’s chuckle woke her.

  ‘They named the first mine “The Dark”. And the second “Rattlesnake” after one of the discoverers apparently. By 1899 both were operating ten-head stamp mills, pounding the rock to extract the ore.’

  As she fought for sleep against the sound of his voice, she learned that at its peak in 1905 Kallayee had a population of 1,016 people, including three pubs, a bank, a post office, a small school and two brothels. She wished some were still open. Even the brothel. For company. Someone else Lorcan could bore with this history lesson. She’d even pay the prostitutes at this stage.