1.
A children’s farm was a nice change. Clandestine meetings were
usually held in dark pubs, not urban pastures with good sightlines
and pleasant views. Half an hour before closing time, a few families
were still out wandering the gardens and gazing at cows. Crisp air
and deep-blue sky, a lingering warmth to the late afternoon sun.
Melbourne autumn at its best.
Caleb paid the staggering entrance fee and headed down
the path at a brisk pace. The five-block drive from his office had
taken twenty minutes thanks to roadworks, and everything
about this possible client screamed anxiety – the anonymous
email address and lack of phone number, the request they meet
immediately.
A feeling of lightness despite the rush to get here: the end of a
good day, in a good week, in a greatly improved year. Thank God.
Caleb reached an enclosed garden with amber-leaved trees.
Fluffy chickens were scratching at the ground, their feathers
moulting like snow. No self-described stocky man in a charcoal
suit. No men at all. Just a mother and her bandy-legged toddler
offering grass to the disinterested birds. A glimpse into a possible
future: a small hand in his, Kat by his side, an afternoon together
in the sun. The mother turned and said something to him. Her
words were too fast to catch, but her expression was clear:
Go away weird, smiling man. He left.
No one was waiting on the other side of the gate, or by the barns.
Looked like Martin Amon was a no-show. A bit of a surprise; the
man hadn’t come across as flaky in their brief email conversation.
No worrying overuse of capital letters or exclamation marks, just
a few blunt sentences that gave the impression of someone used
to taking charge. Maybe it was just as well. Odds were, Amon was
an uptight manager worried about minor fraud, but his urgency
could also signal something more ominous. The exact kind of work
Caleb avoided these days. He only took safe jobs now – employee
checks and embezzlement cases, security advice – nothing that
could bring fear and violence back into his life. A lesson finally
learned after his brother. After Frankie.
He looped around the far side of the garden for a final look.
More chickens here, three of them pecking at a darkened patch
of grass near a wooden shed. Small lumps of something pale and
glistening. A cloying smell, like a butcher’s shop on a summer’s
day. He knew that smell, still started from his dreams with it
thickening his breath.
He stopped walking.
A long drag-mark led from the birds into the shed; wet, as
though someone had slopped a dirty mop across the grass. Stray
tufts of down had stuck to it, stirring gently in the breeze. White
feathers, stained red.
Bile rose in his throat.
Movement to his right, the mother and toddler coming around
the corner towards him. The child gave him a gummy smile and
offered a fistful of grass. No air to speak; no words. Caleb put
up a hand and signed for them to stop. The woman froze, her
mouth opening as she noticed the pallid flecks and damp grass,
the chickens peck, peck, pecking. She scooped up her child and ran.
He should run, too.
Should turn and leave and never come back.
He skirted carefully around the chickens and followed the long
stain to the doorway. No windows, his eyes slow to make sense of
the shadows. A peaked wooden ceiling, high stacks of hay against
the walls. The man was lying on his side by the door. Charcoal suit,
a few extra kilos softening his stocky build, sandy hair matted at
the back. No face, just a bloodied pulp of flesh and bone.
Copyright © 2021 by Emma Viskic. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
