I remember how careful you were with snakes, how you treated them like precious cargo, animals to be admired as much as feared. Despite the dead creatures in the storage shed, you would never kill a snake unless there was no other option. Once, you wouldn’t have. I look down at the dead snake and swallow shame. That’s two deaths now: a snake and a fox. Who’s next? Me or you?
I drop the broom in the corridor and slope back to the living room. It’s hopeless trying to fix this house. The floor may be swept, but the windows are still smashed, and the roof is still falling down; there are cobwebs across the ceiling. Like you, it’snever going to be what it was. You’re right: we should never have come back. I slam the wall with my fist and more dust billows out. I crumple in the doorway of the living room and let more sobs come. What have I done?
I lean my head against the wall and shut my eyes, my whole body aching with tension. Even now, I listen for the rusty squeak of the screen door opening. But you won’t come in here. You won’t do anything for me. You hate me now. That much is obvious. So, do I take you back to Perth? Be done with this?
I’m breathing hard as I consider it: driving you back down that long, straight road and returning you to the woman in Banksia Drive, or to the teenage girl in the city park. And what then? You tell your parole officers about the things I’ve done to you. After that, it won’t be you going back to prison, it will be me. And if you got more than ten years for the things you did…
I imagine Mum’s face if she finds out, realises who I’ve become. She wouldn’t start a charitable fund to help me this time. And Dad would retreat even further into the cave he’s made, die a little more. Nick would find out too, he’d know about all my secrets then. Even Rose, my sick hopeful client, even she would find out. Strangely, her knowing about me feels most shameful. She doesn’t deserve that shock; she’s suffering enough as it is. But I’d be front-page news again, and it would be more than embarrassing and regressive; it would keep me tethered to you.
No.
If I took you back and you told the police, this time the world would think I was the sick one. No morepoor little Gemma. They’d sayPoor Ty,just when he was trying to rehabilitate, too.They wouldn’t know about the girl in the park, or your addictions, or your smug, nasty smile. They wouldn’t know thatyou don’t care about me at all now. You would win, and I would lose. You could do whatever you wanted, without me. I would be the one stuck, still with no release.
The tears come again, and I slam my fists onto the floorboards. I’ve made a mess out of everything. But is there another option?
If I kill you, neither of us is a victim anymore.
If I kill you, I go back down that long, flat road alone, return to Perth, then to London, as if nothing has ever happened. I even get the last night of my hotel booking.
If I kill you, I still tell Mum that I helped the turtles.
If I kill you, I tell Mum I’m better from my time away, and, who knows, maybe I will be.
If I kill you, I will have the release and you will not. You won’t go back to prison, and neither will I.
We will both be free.
I stand and walk out of the house, letting the screen slam behind me and head back to you, of course I fucking do. Where else? But you’re not where I left you. The camp bed is still tipped to the side in the dirt, but you’re not tied to it. I bend down and pull the rope away from the bed, wind it up and pile it next to the car; I shouldn’t have started untying you, making it easier for you.
The spade’s gone too. Did you bury the fox, after all? Somehow, I doubt it. But she’s not where I left her either. I look for disturbances in the earth, evidence of a grave. Nothing. What have you done with her? I haven’t seen any raptors, or dingoes sniffing around, and she couldn’t have survived and crawled away. Could she?
When I look more closely, I make out faint footprints in the sand, heading towards the side of the house closest to the Separates. Of course, you’ve gone searching for your drugs.
I start to run, following your footprints as they veer close to the house at one point. Did you hear me screaming inside, killing the snake? Did you stop and wonder about helping? I clench my fists: you were so close to me and you didn’t come to help. That snake could have killed me, and you wouldn’t have done a thing. I round the corner near the mulga scrub and termite mounds and see your back, the skin around your spine stretched and white under the blazing sun, like a pearly-pale grub. You’re bent over, digging. You throw sand behind you in a red arc.
You chuck the spade to one side and get onto your hands and knees, scooping the dirt away furiously. Then you filter it between your fingers, searching. There are other piles of dirt around you, aborted attempts. You must have been at it a while. I didn’t know you had the energy. All this time, you would’ve heard me bashing and screaming and crying inside the house, but you just kept digging.
Perhaps you think I’ve died inside the house, now that it’s quieter. Or perhaps you think I’ll emerge at any moment; that’s why you’re moving fast, hoping to find the drugs before I find you. You’re digging in the right place. At your side is the discarded mulga branch I planted as a marker.
As I approach, I have the urge to tip your hunched body head-first into the hole. It wouldn’t take much. But I stop quietly behind you, the spade between us, less than a metre from my feet. You grunt as you dig, sweat running in rivers from your hair and down your back. The dirt has stained yourlegs rust-red and your feet are as pink as galah feathers. But you haven’t found anything yet.
I wait like the snake in the doorway.
Then, that increasingly familiar gunshot laughter rings out. You have seen something.
I step forward fast. If it’s the bag of pills, you might swallow them right away. You must hear me because you stand and turn to face me. You hold up your right hand, a triumphant grin on your face. I stare at your pale, naked body and your scrawl of pubic hair, your wild expression. But it’s not a bag of drugs in your right hand, it’s the car key. You’re laughing again as you see me staring. You against me? Right now, you are scoring the points.
‘Bloody stupid hiding place,’ you say. ‘Why’d a bit of mulga be sticking up here if you hadn’t put it there?’
You’ve come back, your knowledge of the land saving you again. And me, still the loser. I’ll never know enough.
‘Knew where you’d buried it,’ you continue. ‘Just had to keep digging to find it.’
You look at the key as if it’s a prize, a reward for having to endure me for so long.
‘Well, that’s it then,’ you say. ‘I’ll be off now.’
You’re not staying to search for the drugs, or to search for us. You’re already striding away, the key ring slipped over your index finger and the key clasped inside your right palm, your naked body straight and tall, walking across the burning sand as if your feet were made for this. You’re going to leave me behind. No one will know what I did, or where I ended up. My disappearance will be a bigger mystery than it was the first time round. This time, however, no one will be held accountable.
‘Have a good life, Kate,’ you say over your shoulder.
This is wrong, wrong, WRONG. And how can you call me Kate, now?
You walk towards the car, away from me, away from your home. And I am no longer Kate, or Gemma, or anyone. You’ve won.
So, I do the only thing I can do to stop you.
I grab the spade and swing.