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back to me. Scumble appeared in the clearing and trotted across to the studio, returning with a
hammer, pinch bar, nails, and an apron that he dumped beside Glaze. The other gear he carried to
the front, out of sight. A thump announced the ladder s falling against the guttering and I watched
hopelessly as his head appeared over the ridge of the roof before disappearing again as he bent to
prise off tiles.
I reckoned my best hope would be to overpower Glaze while he was putting the apron on Jon, but
he was waiting for Scumble. Fear made me desperate for a piss, but at least I forgot my pains. Der s
knife was open and ready, but it would probably fold up and amputate my fingers if I tried to stab.
Powerlessness paralyses. I was five metres from my best friend who was trussed up ready to have
his neck snapped by two blokes who had already attempted to murder me, and I was doing nothing!
Why hadn t I listened to the Alconas? Why hadn t I told them to call the cops? Why bloody why?
Jon groaned. Glaze raised a foot as if to lay in the boot, thought better of it, and turned away in
contempt. I dithered and wondered what to do. I didn t dare move and there wasn t a weapon in
reach. The gun complicated everything. A clatter disturbed the peace as Scumble threw the tools
down in front of the house. Half a dozen tiles followed before he climbed down and strutted back,
feet apart, hands on self-satisfied hips, smiling cheerfully down at his victim.
Ready for the high jump, faggot?
No response.
Right, Bob, pass the apron.
Shouldn t you break his neck first?
Good idea.
I had taken a huge breath and was on the point of hurling a blood-curdling war cry and myself in a
Kamikaze all-or-nothing rescue bid, when the sound of a car skidding to a halt on the other side of
the house, made the two thugs freeze. The car door slammed and a voice shouted, Come out you
thieving pervert! I know you re in there! Max s car stolen property! Come out you load of rat
shit! A gunshot echoed around the valley. Come out, blast you or I ll bloody well come in and get
you!
Sort it quick! ordered Scumble, stuffing his handkerchief into Jon s mouth and shoving him into
the bushes a couple of metres in front of me. I held my breath. Jon s eyes, already popping from
near strangulation, opened even wider when he saw me. Sitting on the ground in front of us facing
the studio, Scumble s bulk would conceal his prisoner s trussed body from the view of anyone who
might come round the corner.
We could hear Glaze striving to pacify Patrick because it could only be him and Patrick s
increasingly hysterical responses. Using the distraction as a cover I eased forward and was just
starting to cut the ropes when another gunshot shattered the peace, followed by a yell of fury from
Glaze. Scumble leaped to his feet, grabbed the rifle and took off.
It took twenty endless seconds to sever the ropes, rip out the gag and drag Jon through the hedge
before running like hares up through the trees towards the ridge and Rory s. Jon never faltered,
didn t ask how I had risen from the dead, just saw his chance and took it. Time for questions if we
survived - unlike adventure films when I was a kid. A bloke and a girl would be escaping ravening
wolves, erupting volcanoes or pursuing crooks, and she d stop and start arguing, asking questions,
complaining she wasn t being treated with respect. The bloke would keep his temper, pander to her
idiocies, take on the burden of worry and effort and even manage a good tempered joke that never
failed to infuriate. It was always despite the woman they survived. The odd thing was that none of
my friends thought the woman s behaviour was odd.
At the top of the ridge, instead of dropping down to Rory s I turned north along the boundary. An
act of utter stupidity. Jon followed unquestioningly. Later, when he asked why we d gone that way,
I told him I hadn t wanted to involve Rory and Lida in any danger, police questioning, or court-
cases. In reality I was a hen without a head, pursued by nameless fear, rushing headlong into
inhospitable forests rather than using common sense.
The boundary was an overgrown surveyor s sight-line through lantana, vines and scrubby
regrowth. When I first took possession of the block I couldn t believe I owned such a vast area. I
kept expecting someone to knock at the door and say there d been a mistake. How could one person
own twelve hectares all for himself? I soon realised I didn t own it at all. I was the temporary
custodian; neither welcome nor unwelcome, simply another factor in the equation of nature.
If you sit still, even for a few minutes and quietly view how the natural inhabitants of Australian
forests go about maintaining their lives, it doesn t take long to realise that nature s not there for the
benefit of humans it s there for itself. William Lines observation in his book, An all Consuming
Passion is correct. The true habitat for humans is culture, not nature. What natural being would
knowingly disrupt and displace life wherever they went, clear forests, alter habitats to favour some
species over others, poison soil, air and water and precipitate the greatest extinction of life since the
world began?
After fifteen minutes of dragging ourselves up hills and down gullies, we turned east along
another ridge into the rising sun. Five minutes later we dropped onto the grass on the crest of a
small hill, a couple of hundred metres behind the dam. I used to swim across with a towel and a
book in a plastic bag, climb the rise and gaze back in ecstatic disbelief at my cottage while I was
building it. Although trees and bushes had grown over the years, the cottage in its clearing was still
just visible. We flopped onto our bellies and peered across the water.
There they are, Jon whispered.
Two figures were combing the trees and shrubs around the cottage, meeting up and talking
together after each ever-widening circuit. Muffled calls and indistinct curses floated across the
stillness. After about ten minutes they waved their hands around, seemed to be arguing, and
Scumble pointed at a lump on the ground. Suddenly in a hurry, they dragged the lump, which I
guessed must be Patrick, to the rear of his own car and heaved it into the boot. After a last look
around, Scumble climbed into Patrick s car and Glaze picked up a handful of something wriggly
before following Scumble up the drive in my Mercedes.
Disintegration. Shudders wrenched my shoulders as though someone was physically shaking me,
and I had to hug myself to stop my arms from flailing. I m having an epileptic fit! I thought,
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