Paycheque (10 page)

Tears prickled behind Claire's eyes. Her throat was jammed and her stomach a ball of knotted dread.

‘Look, I'd better go,' she croaked. ‘Thanks for your help.'

‘No worries, cheers then. And remember, bring your daughter up sometime.'

Claire hung up without another word, sat down on the couch and pulled a cushion to her. The poor little horse. What he must have gone through. She had one last phone call but didn't want to make it, didn't want to know any more. What would she tell Jack? Could bad news send him back into a coma?

With trembling fingers, Claire thumbed through the phone book. She stared at the entry: ‘Tom Bailey – pick up all unwanted horses anywhere, anytime'. No different from the ads for antique furniture or bric-a-brac.

Claire pressed each number slowly and waited, holding her breath, while the phone connected and started to ring. She let it ring three times, four times… There, she'd tried. She was about to hang up when it was answered.

‘Tom Bailey.' He sounded almost cheery. Claire felt the anger welling up inside her.

‘Yes, hello.'

‘Got an unwanted horse for me, luv?'

‘Uh, no… Actually I'm looking for one you picked up three days ago from Todd Newman's.'

‘Hey lady, if you sent the wrong horse it's got nothing to do with me – I only take what's handed to me.'

Claire swallowed hard, building up the courage to say the words. ‘You took the right horse – it was someone else's mistake.'

‘Well nothing to do with me,' he said, sounding relieved. ‘Anyway, we're way too efficient for people to go changing their minds.'

‘Do you remember where he went? Which, uh, facility?'

‘There's only one, love: Packers, just outside Williamstown. But you'd be wasting your time. If he went three days ago he'll be long gone – in cans on his way to a supermarket by now.'

‘Right, okay, thanks for your help.'

‘Bloody women,' he muttered before hanging up.

Claire fought the urge to call him back and give him a piece of her mind. She looked around her friend's cluttered home, searching for some other way to vent her anger and frustration. But nothing would bring Paycheque back. She'd have to find a way to come clean to her father.

Claire buried her head in her hands and began to weep – for Paycheque, for Keith, her mother, her father. But after a few moments, with a force she didn't know she had, she stopped. She couldn't drown in self-pity now. No, she had to do something, get her mind off it. But the distraction that had been there all the other times was gone – her job, her never-ending list of emails.

Maybe Bernadette had been right – maybe she had been using the corporate world as a smokescreen, as one big fat excuse for everything that had gone wrong – and right – in her life. What had she been doing for the past twelve years? What had she achieved, other than a healthier bank balance and an only slightly smaller mortgage? Claire's tears dried.

At least Bernadette brought joy to people's lives – she'd seen customers arrive at the shop, daunted by the work ahead, only to leave brimming with excitement at improving their surroundings. Bernadette genuinely made a difference, with advice that was about so much more than simply gardening. So what did she have that Claire lacked, apart from a green thumb?

Passion. Bernadette had passion. Like she'd said only recently, she felt blessed that she could earn money doing what she loved. Claire looked around at the mishmash of her friend's décor – mostly from op shops. Claire had lived the peasant life – as a kid with her parents – and there was no way she could go back to that.

From somewhere in the depths of her memory she heard the big Texan drawl of Dr Phil. ‘And how's it working for you?' Even from the few shows she'd seen over the years, Claire knew there was no pulling the wool over Dr Phil – he was like the air, nowhere but everywhere. She squirmed inside. Her life had taken less than a year to unravel, and she'd have to face up to a few things if she was going to stop the fraying. Claire wasn't yet sure what she had to do, but wondered if just knowing was a start.

Claire felt less confined in her compact Corolla than Bernadette's lounge room. Sitting behind the wheel she felt more in control. She paused at the end of the driveway with the motor running. She had a choice: left out towards her father's farm at Mount Pleasant, or right towards the regional township of Angaston.

Three days too late. If only she hadn't been so damn stubborn, had taken time off when Derek had suggested it. Bloody Jack – if he'd woken a few days earlier… Claire banged her hand on the steering wheel. There'd be other horses to get her father back on track – there had to be. There was nothing more she could do. He'd have to believe her.

But in the back of Claire's mind she wondered how – when she didn't believe it herself, when she felt so desolate, devoid of hope. It's only a horse, she told herself, and began saying it over and over in her head. It didn't help, and she gave up. She couldn't face the farm knowing she'd failed Paycheque, failed her father.

‘Retail therapy,' she muttered, putting her right indicator on, then drove carefully out onto the open highway.

Claire had a plan: she'd go shopping in the quaint old town of Tanunda instead of the larger Angaston, buy Bernadette a thankyou gift and some gourmet food for lunch. Then they'd head to the hospital to see Jack. She couldn't wait to see him. Then she could get on with her life, get back to normal – well her new jobless normal anyway. And she'd forget about Paycheque; enough experts had said he wasn't worth pursuing anyway. Yes, it was probably all for the best. It would save Jack the humiliation and money. There was probably a better opportunity just around the corner. Claire smiled wryly; she was beginning to think like Bernadette. Maybe the redundancy wasn't all bad after all. Maybe a year off was a good idea.

Claire realised just as the big green sign whizzed past that she'd missed the turn-off to Tanunda. Oh well, she'd take the longer way, via Williamstown. She hadn't been that way for years and it was, after all, the season for change. Claire turned up the radio and began singing along to an ABBA song, hair flying about in the wind through the partially open window.

She was almost past when she noticed the sign with ‘PACKERS PTY LTD ABATTOIR' in large plain black letters. She'd completely forgotten it was on this road. Claire checked her rear vision mirror and pulled onto the gravel edge of the road. With the car idling, she frowned and began tapping nervously on the steering wheel. She turned off the key and wound her window down for more air.

The only sounds were squawking crows and the occasional whoosh of a passing car. When a gust of wind brought the faint aroma of death through her window, Claire wrinkled her nose and almost gagged – the unmistakeable sourness of fresh draining blood.

She started the car again. It's a business just like any other, she told herself, putting the car in gear. She eased forward slowly along the gravel, but didn't pull out onto the bitumen, even though the road was clear.

Claire felt weird, like she was on autopilot. She was fully aware of everything around her, but without telling herself to do it, she'd
flipped her indicator on, checked her mirrors and was doing a u-turn. She crossed the cattle grid next to the looming sign feeling numb – not sad, hopeful, anxious or even nervous – just a weird sort of numbness.

Around her were a series of small paddocks. Each had a set of high steel yards in the corner closest to the wide white rubble driveway. One paddock held sheep, another held black cattle that Claire decided must be Angus, and in a third, large sleek pink pigs snuffled about. The furthest held about a dozen horses of varying sizes and colours: some shiny and full of life and others with sunken backs and starry coats – obviously at the end of long lives.

Claire looked at the sheep, cattle and pigs. She felt nothing – could imagine them sliced up on black trays wrapped in cling film stacked on supermarket shelves. Looking back at the horses, she tried to think of their meat packed in cans for pet food, hooves boiled down for glue. Tears pricked at her eyes. A couple of horses looked up from their grazing, clearly unaware of the fate that awaited them behind the big corrugated iron door less than two hundred metres away. She sighed deeply. It was part of the cycle. She'd heard it said so many times.

She imagined Paycheque in the paddock in front of her, then closed her eyes and shook her head, not wanting to think about him like these horses, munching their way unawares down the raceway and into the shed. Worse was the thought that he would have put up a fight. He would never have gone willingly into the steel crush that was like the racing barriers but so much darker, more terrifying. He might even have been injured, in agony when the powerful bolt that was supposed to mean instant death connected with his head.

Jesus, why had she come? Why was she putting herself through this? She opened her eyes and looked back at the horses. Four chestnuts, two greys, an appaloosa, a buckskin and four bays stared back at her. The darkest of the bays reminded her of Paycheque – a small but well-proportioned thoroughbred.

Startled by a tap on her window, Claire turned to find a lad in faded blue overalls and cap. Beside him was a ute with a few bales of hay on the back. Claire wound down her window and attempted a smile.

‘Something I can help you with?'

She took in his deep brown eyes and kind features. The lad seemed friendly, not at all the brusque, insensitive type she imagined one would have to be to work in an abattoir.

‘Um, no, not really,' she said.

‘Well I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave.' He sounded genuinely apologetic. ‘The boss doesn't like people hanging around.'

‘Okay, I understand,' Claire said, and looked back to the horses.

‘Nice looking some of them – shame to end up here,' he said, dragging one of the bales off the back of the ute and dropping it on the ground.

‘Yeah,' Claire said wistfully. ‘Why the hay if they're…?'

The lad shuffled awkwardly. We've had a breakdown inside – waiting for parts to come from overseas. Just didn't want them being hungry, you know, for their last…'

Claire looked away, not wanting to think about it.

‘My dad runs a feed lot – flogged a couple of bales. I'll been in heaps of shit if he finds out.'

‘I won't tell him. It's nice of you to think of the horses.'

The lad shrugged and checked his watch. ‘Shit, smoko's nearly over. I've gotta get this out before I get the sack. Hey, wouldn't give me a hand to throw it over the fence, would you?'

‘Sure, no worries.' Claire got out of the car.

Side by side they threw hay. Claire was silent while the lad commented on each of the horses that came over. Claire tried to pretend she was feeding ordinary animals – not horses on death row. As she tossed hay, the lad's cheery comments were a dull murmur somewhere in her head.

‘This one's my favourite,' he said. ‘Come on, you big guts.'

She looked up, already smiling at his affection. The furthest horse, the dark bay she'd been admiring earlier, wandered over. He looked nice and healthy so she figured he must have had some kind of accident to be here. He certainly didn't look lame. Maybe he had a nasty streak or was too dangerous to ride.

When the horse turned its back to the others to protect his pile of hay, Claire noticed a brand in the soft flesh above his near foreleg. She squinted, trying to decipher the scar. Not all horses were branded – this one must have meant something to someone once. What had gone wrong for him?

On closer inspection, it didn't look unlike Jack's brand. How many people put letters inside a triangle? Probably heaps. Jack McIntyre used a scaled-down version of his grandfather's sheep brand. Claire found herself wondering if there was a tiny white star under the thick forelock. But she was being ridiculous – Paycheque was long gone.

When the horse pawed the ground for a few beats with one front hoof and then changed to the other, Claire began to feel faint. She must be seeing things. She looked away, convinced she was conjuring images with her guilt.

‘Funny, isn't he?' the lad said next to her. ‘Does it all the time when he eats.'

‘Yeah, it's like the puddling some cats do if they are taken away from their mother too early.' She stared at the bay. In all her years spent around horses the only one she'd seen regularly do it like this was Paycheque. But it couldn't be.

‘Hey mate, what's your story?' she called to the horse.

The horse looked up, twisting his head as if contemplating the question. His forelock shifted to reveal a small white star with a jagged scar underneath. Paycheque had one similar from when he'd fallen and got caught under the bottom rail of the cattle crush as a youngster. It was the reason he was so afraid of racing barriers and why Jack had been so careful with him.

Claire's legs felt weak and she grabbed the nearest stable thing – the arm of the lad next to her.