Dark Country (44 page)

He took the bus to Birraga, paying for two seats to give sufficient room for his healing body. Nevertheless, the long journey
tired him; by the time the bus stopped in the centre of town, late in the afternoon, stiffness had set in, and his whole arm
ached, each part with its own particular set of pains and discomfort.

The walk the few blocks from the bus stop to the police station helped ease some of the stiffness, but the aches remained.
Healing, as far as he was concerned, took far too damn long.

He stopped on the corner near the police station, dropped his bag to the ground, and let his old-man body rest a moment or
two. He’d had the whole long bus ride to think about this meeting, but now the moment had come, uncertainty made him pause.

Much could change in two months. He hadn’t contacted her since he got out, hadn’t told her he was coming back. Hadn’t told
anyone, yet. Just a phone call to the Birraga station this morning to find out her roster, and whether she’d be here or in
Dungirri.

He’d see her, and that was the extent of his plans. His future was wide open for him to choose – he had the resources for
any business, any city or country he wanted, and no financial need to hurry to decide. His own money was enough. Sometime
soon, he’d have to deal with Vince’s legacy, come to grips with it, make arrangements; but that could wait a little longer.

‘She’s out at the moment, mate,’ the constable at the front desk said. ‘Should be back in half an hour or so. About six. Can
I give her a message?’

He scrawled a note for her and left it with the constable.

At a café in the main street, he ordered coffee, and sat at the table outside, under the shade of the awning, idly watching
the activity around.

Most of Birraga’s shops and businesses closed at five or five-thirty, and the winding down of the day was evident in the cheerful
conversations and exchanges along the street as shopkeepers started closing up, people passed on their way home, or popped
into a shop to buy some last-minute things before closing time. People knew each other here. They called
each other by name, stopped for short chats, or simply waved at each other in passing.

Mark Strelitz made slow progress down the other side of the road. In neat moleskins and shirt, he fitted in, part of the country
community, respect evident in the way people greeted him, stopped for brief conversations, some casual, some clearly more
related to business, community or political issues. His easy warmth and courtesy showed, even when an old man stopped him,
directly across the road from where Gil sat, and engaged him in some topic about which the old man obviously held passionate
views.

But when Mark glanced across and noticed Gil, his face changed, his initial shock shifting to a worried distraction as he
hastily finished his conversation, shook hands, and hurried across the street. Gil rose as he approached.

‘Gil! I didn’t know you were back.’

Mark’s handshake was firm, polite as ever, but his eyes seemed … older, Gil thought. Troubled, under the social polish.

‘I just arrived.’

‘It’s good to see you. Everyone was worried, for a while there. You’re well?’

Small talk had never been Gil’s strong point. ‘Much better.’

‘Great to hear.’ Mark stopped, shifted uneasily, and the easy confidence evaporated. ‘Gil, would you have a few minutes? There’s
a matter I’ve been wanting to discuss with you.’

Alarm bells rang in his head. He felt tempted to make some excuse, but if the ‘matter’ concerned Mark and Kris, he didn’t
want to hear about it. Yet the man did seem worried. Perhaps there’d been ongoing issues from all the arrests and charges.

‘Yeah, I guess so. I’ve got nowhere to be until six.’

‘Thanks. My office is just round the corner – shall we go there?’

Mark’s staff had gone home, the electorate office deserted but for the two of them. Gil accepted a cool drink, and followed
Mark into his private office, taking a seat at a low table opposite him.

Mark looked down at his hands, at the glass in them, and took a long breath before he began. ‘Gil, I need to ask you about
the accident, with Paula. I’ve never regained my memory of it, the medicos think I probably never will. It’s just a black
hole in my head. But the thing is … ever since the other month, when you were here and I had that concussion, I’ve had dreams,
quite often. Always the same – a bloody kangaroo glaring at me in the headlights, a horrendous crunch as we hit the tree.’
He paused, his shoulders hunched, and took a swig of his juice, as though it were a strong spirit and he needed to fortify
himself.

Then he looked Gil straight in the eye. ‘The scene I see – it’s always from the driver’s seat. I was driving that night, wasn’t
I?’

Gil stood abruptly, walked to the window and gazed out at the sky, no clue how to handle this. He’d buried it, long ago. Accepted
the way the cards had fallen, and moved on.

‘It’s just a dream,’ he insisted.

‘I have to know for sure, Gil. I don’t know if what I’m dreaming is a fragment of memory or just my imagination. I don’t remember
anything between my birthday the week before, and waking up in the hospital. But seeing you again,
the concussion – one of them’s triggered something in my head. The dream keeps coming again and again and again, and I need
to know whether it’s real or not.’

‘Leave it, Mark,’ Gil growled.

He heard Mark rise from his seat, come a few steps closer. ‘Can you swear to me that you were driving, Gil? Can you do that?’

Gil turned to face him, searching for words to dissuade him from this path. ‘It’s ancient history, now. Just let it be.’ He
knew as soon as he’d said the words that they weren’t the right ones.

Mark closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window frame, a single quietly spoken curse escaping his lips. When he
finally opened his eyes again, Gil expected to see anger or fear but there was only calmness, acceptance, and Mark simply
said, ‘Why?’

Gil recognised the question but didn’t answer, the silence stretching between them. Confirming Mark’s suspicions wouldn’t
help anyone, and after all this time the truth might be more damaging than the fiction.

‘Damn it, Gil, why?’ Mark demanded. ‘Why did you tell them it was you?’

He let out the breath he was holding, slowly, carefully. ‘I didn’t. The old sarge – Bill Franklin – was the first one there,
and by then I’d got you out of the car and was doing what I could for Paula. I couldn’t get to her through her door so I was
kneeling in the driver’s seat, and Franklin just assumed at first I’d been driving. Then Paula died at the scene, and they
didn’t know if you’d make it, and everyone was angry, and
although Franklin knew by then it was you, not me – well, I guess he figured it was better to blame the feral kid than the
town favourite.’

‘But why didn’t you say something?’

As if it would have been that easy. The differences between his own experiences of the world and Mark’s made a chasm.

‘I was just a kid, outcast, and way out of my depth.’ With Franklin’s hand on the back of his head, slamming his face into
the table. ‘It was … made clear to me that I was to carry the blame. And then the first night in the remand centre, the threat
was delivered – comply, or Jeanie would suffer. I thought I had no choice. The days went by, and you never said anything to
contradict the story. No-one would have believed me, without your backup, and I couldn’t risk anything happening to Jeanie.’

And Gil had not known then, still didn’t know, whether the deception was all Franklin’s and Doc Russell’s doing, with a favour
or two from Flanagan, or whether others had knowingly participated.

Mark dropped his head in his hands, shaking it, grappling to comprehend. ‘Gil, I wish I knew what to say. “Sorry” is nowhere
near enough.’

‘You don’t need to say sorry or any other shit. It’s done and gone years ago, and you weren’t involved. They stuffed up the
rigging of evidence, and the conviction was quashed. I don’t have a record. There’s nothing to fix. There’s no bloody
point
in bringing it up after all this time.’

‘There is if it was my fault,’ Mark insisted quietly. ‘Had I been drinking, Gil? Was I drunk?’

Gil ran a hand through his hair, searched for an answer. He still had no clue, to this day, whose blood they’d tested – except
that it hadn’t been his own. Trust bloody Mark to ask the awkward questions.

‘You weren’t drunk,’ he said and that was honest, because he could still remember Mark’s cheerful, unslurred voice. ‘I was
hitching, and you offered me a ride. I was only in the car ten minutes or so before the smash. Paula had a bottle of something,
offered it around, but you didn’t have any.’

‘That doesn’t mean I wasn’t already over the limit.’

‘I saw no sign of it.’ That, too, was honest – although maybe not enough to deter Mark from pursuing it. ‘Look, Mark, the
accident was just that, an accident, no-one’s fault. Not yours or mine or Paula’s or even the bloody kangaroo’s fault. So
don’t go being all high-minded and doing anything stupid.’

Mark’s half-smile didn’t wipe the grim look from his eyes, the one that had aged him ten years in the past half-hour. ‘Don’t
worry, Gil – I didn’t get to where I am by doing stupid things.’

Kris parked behind the station, went in through the back door, and headed down the corridor to her office, glad her shift
was almost done.

Jake had left a message on her chair and she flicked open the folded sheet of paper as she sat.

Arrived on the bus. Will come back around 6pm. G
.

She grinned and might have kept staring at the paper and grinning stupidly, except she glanced at her watch. Six-ten.
She refrained from dancing down the corridor to the reception area – just. But her boots were definitely lighter than they’d
been for a while.

He was there, waiting, standing reading one of the posters on the wall, his back to her. Jeans, dark blue shirt, kit bag on
the floor. His left arm hung a little stiffly at his side, but even as she watched, he flexed his hand a couple of times,
with what seemed like a good range of movement.

Weeks of worrying and wondering, and frustration at simply not
knowing
faded into a wild jumble of relief and pleasure.

She leaned her elbows on the counter. ‘Good to see you upright, Gillespie.’

He turned, stayed where he was, his careful, expressionless mask only holding for a couple of seconds before the corner of
his mouth quirked.

‘After ten hours on the bus, it feels good to be standing up, Blue.’

God, she’d missed the dry humour, missed hearing that nickname in that laconic voice. Missed the sight of him – and more.

‘You planning on visiting Dungirri? There’s been a few people worrying about you. No news has been hard to deal with.’

‘Cuts both ways, Blue. Been wondering about a few people, myself.’

Not much clue there on which specific people, but she could guess. That careful lack of expression had to cover emotion he
wasn’t sure how to reveal.

‘Come on through to my office, then, and we can catch up on the news.’ She smiled on the last word, let it hang suggestively.

With a brief flash of a grin, he nodded, reached down with his right hand to pick up the bag on his left side, and grimaced
slightly with the twisting, lifting movement. The blunt reminder of the trauma he’d endured cast a shadow on her joy. He’d
been through too much, might not be ready for, or even want to continue, what they’d shared months ago. Things had to be different,
now.

‘How’s the recovery going?’ she asked as she led him to her office, trying to keep matter-of-fact, trying not to remember
the horror of him broken and battered, close to dying.

‘I had a very good surgeon, and my arm’s better than they thought it would be.’

And he still didn’t move quite as easily as he had, she noticed, as they sat down in her office. But given the extent of his
injuries, that wasn’t surprising, at only two months down the track.

She left her door open, out of habit, but there were others around, passing in the corridor, and it didn’t seem the right
moment to close the door and get … well, personal with him.

‘Liam and Jeanie and Megan – are they okay?’ he asked, glancing out the door himself, keeping things neutral. ‘I only got
the very basics out of the Feds.’

At least she could reassure him, and despite her frustration at not being able to touch him, maybe it was better to update
him on developments and news before they dealt with the personal. ‘Everyone’s fine. Jeanie’s staying out with Delphi at present.
Deb’s fine. Liam’s made a full recovery, and so has Megan.’ She paused, not quite sure how he’d take this next bit. ‘She asks
every time I see her if there’s been any news of you.’

He looked away, swallowed, but he didn’t make any comment. She didn’t push him.

‘So, I gather the Feds think there’s no more danger for you?’

‘They’ve got more evidence than they need. They don’t need me as a witness. So I told them I was leaving.’ He rubbed at his
left hand. ‘I read in the newspapers that there’s been a number of arrests around here, lately.’