Murderer's Thumb (8 page)

‘Don't know. I haven't done it yet. No, it's something I read somewhere, about a map. Is it a hill around here?

She laughed. ‘No one in Falcon Ridge has that much imagination. I think it's something to do with your hand. You know, like fortune-telling.'

‘That's what I thought. But it doesn't fit.' He walked outside. The clothesline stood on what would normally be a patch of lawn. Now it was dry earth. Dead geraniums, like stunted brown skeletons, were the only remnants of a garden.

The chimney climbed the back wall, red-brown beside peeling weatherboard. The mortar in between each brick was cracked. Adam ran his fingers over them as he'd done inside. One brick at chest height moved, made a chink against its neighbour. Adam wobbled it, worked it free. A small black opening stared at him. He peered in but couldn't see anything. The dry scent of ash filled his nose and throat. He was close. He knew he had to be close now. He put his arm through the hole, as far as he could, and felt around. Brick walls and a metallic cylinder. Frustrated, he went into the house to get a torch and a screwdriver.

Back by the chimney he set to work, picking at the mortar around the adjacent bricks. Soon he removed four bricks and could reach inside more easily. He shone the torch into the hole. The walls of the chimney were pale orange and shot straight up. A round black funnel, the flue of the existing wood heater made its way up the centre. Adam angled the torch to get a better view. Up, down, up again, to the sides. Then he stopped. There was a dark shape, perhaps a hole or ledge, high in the chimney to the right. He put the torch between his knees and felt in the darkness. Something was there, something wrinkled like old leather. He recoiled, imagining a dead rodent, then took a deep breath. This must be it! He clutched at the object and pulled it out.

Yes! It was an old boot. Not just a few years old, but ancient and covered in dust. It looked like the style of boot worn in photos from during the Depression. The leather was stiff and smelled musty. Adam forced the tongue down. Inside was a book: a hardback notebook with a black and red cover, the type that is mass-produced in China.

He wrenched it out and opened it. Threads of binding lay torn where the middle section had been removed. The yellowed pages that remained were covered with small loopy handwriting. On the inside front cover in big red letters it read
Property of M.T.
Adam was certain he'd found the missing diary. He replaced the bricks and raced inside to read it.

NINE

Monday 21 August

The house is cold. It's old and weird. I bet nasty things have happened here. I told them I'd only stay till I got all the crap in my head sorted out. I've been here a week and Frank's already laying down the law. Stupid dickhead. Thinks I'm a criminal or something.

They can't make me do anything if I don't want to. If I don't want to eat with them, I won't. If I don't want to go to town, I don't have to. I don't even have to go to school. I'll just get off at the bus stop and walk to the shops. I'm nearly sixteen, I can do what I like. At least Aunty Jane's cool. She lets me do anything. But if her lover boy Frank tells me off again for not washing up, I will seriously freak out.

He's so vile. He's got this wispy brown moustache. Makes his face look pointy, like a rat. I hate the way he walks too, his feet splayed out and his bum sucked in. I don't know why Aunty Jane likes him. Must be his wage.

I'll give it a few more weeks. If things go OK I'll stay on, but I know how to get back to the city if I want to. I know how to live off the streets. And there's always Granny Bell, if things get rough.

M.T.

Tuesday 22 August

There's a girl at the brick house, Emma. She seems OK, a bit straight maybe. Always wandering around with a bucket, feeding calves. I wonder if she's a Taurus. We go on the school bus together. I think she's in one of the other year ten classes. She wears her uniform short like she's showing off her figure, but I don't think she means to. She seems too boring for that. Skinny bitch. She's all arms and legs, like her mum, the Brolga. I call her that because she stalks slowly around the farm like a foraging bird, head swivelling from side to side, like she's frightened of someone ambushing her.

Emma's dad's an arsehole though. Keeps giving me shifty looks. I saw him tonight after tea, packing fishing gear into his ute. I asked him where he went fishing and he said it was none of my business. I was just being polite. Then he told me off for hanging round the tractor shed. Said there was dangerous stuff about, chemicals and that. Don't know what he thought I'd do. Blow the place up or something.

There's a young guy working here. He's on ‘P' plates so he must be at least eighteen. Drives an old ute with too many aerials. Guess he's into radios. He wears an Akubra when he's not milking. Must think he's a cowboy. Seems more like a dickhead. I suppose it's to cover up his red hair, or should I say, orange.

M.T.

Wednesday 23 August

Frank hasn't spoken to me for two whole days. Better that way, I reckon. Stupid prick. Just because he's sleeping with my aunty doesn't mean he can tell me what to do. I heard them doing it last night. The bed kept thumping into the wall and the springs squeaked. I should've bashed on the wall to make them shut up. But I didn't. I just kept listening. I like listening. Maybe I'll be a spy when I leave school.

I want to leave school now, but there aren't any jobs around here. Not unless I go to the abattoir, and I couldn't kill cows, no way! What a bunch of sickos, killing for a living.

I'll have to leave here and go back to the city and look for something. I could be a hairdresser's apprentice. That's sort of creative—or work in a shop. Something where I don't have to go back to school and study for years.

Speaking of apprentices, I found out that the dickhead cowboy is called Loody. Cameron Ludeman. He's the Thackerays' apprentice.

I spoke to Emma on the bus today. She's actually all right, just comes across as a bit boring. Goes to show how wrong first impressions are. I asked her about Loody. Emma thinks he's a loser, too. He's asked her out a few times. But she keeps telling him where to get off. She said I'd better watch out, or he'd be after me soon. Said he was a desperado and a cruel bastard.

He goes spotlighting all the time. Loves killing things. Apparently he tortures cats, douses them with petrol and sets them alight. She reckoned he shot a fox one night and chopped off its tail while it was still alive. Gross!

M.T.

Thursday 24 August

Aunty Jane made me and Frank call a truce. Just as well. He doesn't know what I'm capable of. I can make things really ugly if I want to. So I agreed to do the dishes so long as he cooked and didn't try and boss me around. Aunty Jane's relieved. But seeing as she cooks most nights, that means Frank still does the dishes almost every night and I relax. Sucked in, Frank.

Aunty Jane isn't overbearing in the peace-keeping stakes. She just mentioned that I ought to sort it out because it was driving her mental. Whereas Mum would rant and rave and force me to say sorry, when I never wanted to, then heap on the punishment when I refused to cooperate. I guess Aunty Jane's a bit like me, she doesn't freak out at the slightest little thing. I wish she'd lose weight though. With all that bedspring squeaking, sooner or later she and Frank will crash through the floor.

I shouldn't be so critical I suppose, considering the size of my thighs. I just don't want to get that big.

When it's raining I sit in the lounge at an old desk and do cryptic crosswords. If it's dry I go exploring. There's a line of cypress trees near the house that I can climb. It looks out over the dam and the driveway that twists down to the road like a giant ribbon. I wonder how big the farm is and where the borders are?

There's a guy down at the house. He's tall and looks fit looking. He goes for a jog most evenings. I reckon he's Emma's brother. He's thin like her and the Brolga and he's got dusty blond hair. He spends a lot of time on the four-wheeler motorbike. I waved to him today and he nearly ran off the driveway. Maybe he likes me.

I saw old Thackeray shout at him to pick something up at the shed. Shouted at him like he'd shout at a dog. Rude bastard. Then he drove off. Thackeray spends a lot of time on his tractor. I often see him heading down the drive with a big round bale stuck on the forks. At least he cares for his cows.

More than what my stepdad ever does. All he cares about is his job and what the board thinks. Screw the board.

M.T.

Friday 25 August

Emma gets around. I saw her today at lunchtime meeting this guy outside the school fence. His hands were all over her arse. He looks hot, bit of a surfer type. I wonder if he knows she's only fifteen, jail bait. He drove off in a red car and she came back straightening her uniform, with a big smile on her face.

She told me about him on the way home. He works at the hardware in Booradoo and his nickname's Lugger. She says she's only been seeing him a few days. Before that she was with some other guy. She warned me not to say anything to her parents though. She said her Dad would freak. I reckon he would, too. She says her mum calls her ‘the great harlot' to her face. Bit harsh. What a weirdo.

I read Emma's palms today. Her hands are really short, considering how lanky she is. She's practical but super emotional too. There's even fame written there. There are no secrets when you know how to read palms. That's what Granny Bell taught me. And she told me how to watch for all the things people do with their hands: how they fold them, how they use them. It's not just the lines but the shape and flexibility of a hand that can tell you so much.

After I did the reading Emma asked if I was into ouija boards. She wants to get a group together. I said I hadn't tried, but I'd be part of it. Sounds cool.

I was right about the tall guy on the four-wheeler. It is Emma's brother. He's called Matt. He's got a good body. I like the way he swings his arms when he walks. But I didn't tell her that.

M.T.

Saturday 26 August

Old Thackeray's a prick too, like Frank. I waved to him and he just rolled by on his tractor as if I was a bit of cow shit. I think he's mean, the way he talks to his kids. One day he'll regret it.

I saw Emma today. She asked if I wanted to help her feed the calves. She's really direct. Calls a spade a spade, is what Aunty Jane says. And she does. She swears her mouth off when the big calves hog all the food. I asked her when her birthday was. It's January. I said she must be a Capricorn then, all that earth energy. She gave me a funny look, said her mum would go sick if she heard me say stuff like that.

She wanted to know how I knew about astrology and palmistry and stuff. I told her I read a lot, but also because of Granny Bell. I told her she wasn't a real relative, more like a mentor. She taught me how to see pathways into the future.

Emma seemed interested but said she didn't need anyone to guide her. The Brolga tries to do that 24/7. It must be shit having to hide stuff from her all the time, living a pretend life. Her dad's no better. Grumpy old prick.

I asked her about Matt and she just clammed up. I saw him again today. Always going to the milking shed. He's nervous. I can tell by the way he looks at me. I make him shudder. He blushes every time he sees me. I think he must like me. But he's shy.

I like tall guys. I wonder how old he is. Emma didn't say. She didn't say anything about him, except that he doesn't talk much, and I should leave him alone. She can get stuffed. I'm going to try and talk to him myself.

M.T.

Sunday 27 August

I think I know why Emma didn't want me to talk to her brother. He stutters. But I don't mind. I like him. I like the way I can make him squirm. I said hi to him today and he stumbled. His face turned bright red. I walked with him to the milking shed and asked him how old he was. He was so embarrassed he could hardly answer. He's seventeen. He's got a ute already, set up for when he gets his licence.

I asked if he liked going out and stuff. He said he liked going into town to get supplies and he liked going to cricket and footy practice. That wasn't what I meant. I asked if he liked girls but he just went red and walked away. Still, he's delicious-looking, and soooo innocent. I think he's sweet how he loves animals so much.

M.T.

Monday 28 August

Emma invited me to her house after school. The Brolga was there playing the piano. She said hi and gave me one of those looks that says what-the-hell-have-you-done-to-your-hair. Hasn't she ever seen anyone with blue spikes? Guess it makes me look mean and she can't handle it. Anyway, she can talk! Her hair looks shitty. Falls in wisps like old cobwebs. God that woman is weird. She asked if I went to church. When I said no, she gave me a horror stare, started muttering and walked out. Emma was embarrassed. Said not to listen to her mum because she has heaps of strange ideas. Apparently she burnt all Emma's teen mags. Said they were sinful. A bit harsh.

We made some sandwiches and watched TV. There's an aerial view photo of the property in their living room. They must've paid a packet to get someone to take it from an aeroplane. Emma traced around the boundary fences. Their farm goes right to the edge of Pattersons Creek. The whole area looks like a big hand. The milking shed and the old house sit on the Mount of Venus and the paddocks slope into the fields of Mars (the palm) with Emma's house in the upper field, overlooking the dam.

Falcon Ridge Road cuts the outline of the thumb: a murderer's thumb. The milking shed is right near the base of the fate line. Amazing shit, eh?

M.T.

Tuesday 29 August

Emma was at it again today, pressed against the side of Lugger's car while he kissed her. I liked watching them. Better than watching TV. She knew what she was doing too, the tart. She had her hand down his pants. Then they drove off. She must have missed the class after lunch because she hadn't returned when the bell went. But she was back in time to catch the school bus.