Free Bereft by Chris Womersley Page B

me what you said to him.”
    Quinn dug out his tin of tobacco and set about rolling a smoke. His fingers trembled. The tobacco was as friable as soil and repeatedly crumbled from the thin paper.
    â€œAnd that you were crying ,” the girl added.
    Quinn blushed and devoted unnecessary attention to his cigarette. The girl unsettled him. A magpie warbled nearby.
    â€œYou don’t believe me, do you?” she persisted.
    Quinn jammed the cigarette between his lips and lit it with a branch from the fire. It was a good question; he was no longer sure what to believe. It seemed equally that all things were possible and also that very little was. The cigarette smoke irritated his throat. He coughed.
    The girl wandered off a little way, nudging at leaves with her bare feet, stooping here and there to examine objects she spied in the dirt. Quinn put his free hand into his pocket and fondled the revolver. He supposed he could withdraw it if he needed to.
    By now the sun had risen over the lip of the earth, releasing its warmth. The day was getting underway. He wondered about his mother and father down there in the valley. The residents of Flint would be starting to go about their business, eating boiled eggs and drinking mugs of tea.
    The girl approached him. “Are you going to shoot me now?”
    She was bold, he would say that for her. Quinn withdrew his hand from his pocket. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He paused. “Was that you last night in the bushes? Were you watching me?”
    Unsmiling, she made a gun of her hand, pointed her index finger at him and cocked her grubby thumb. “ Who’s there? Show yourself.”
    They stood unmoving for several seconds before she dissolved into laughter and sauntered about as if she owned the place. Quinn drew on his cigarette. He flicked the stub into the fire and sensed—like waves building far out at sea—a coughing attack that, sure enough, started as a series of tight gulps before cascading into spasms of painful spluttering.
    The girl leaned backwards. “Do you have the plague?”
    He shook his head and sat on a log. He bent double, grasping his stomach and groaning with pain until the episode subsided several minutes later, leaving him sweating and his innards quivering. When he became aware again of his surrounds, she was beside him with a hand resting on his shoulder. He resisted the urge to shrug her away and instead spat into the fire and wiped his watering mouth and eyes.
    â€œDid you get gassed?”
    He nodded.
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œIn France.”
    â€œTom Smith was gassed, too.” She crouched again and tossed twigs one by one into the fire. “You shouldn’t have fired at me last night. They hear shots right through the valley …”
    He couldn’t hear what she said next. “What?”
    â€œI said: There’s sometimes people hide up here.”
    â€œWhat kind of people?”
    The girl shrugged. “People getting away from the nubonic plague—”
    â€œ Bu bonic.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt’s bubonic plague. Not nu bonic. And it’s not that, anyway. It’s influenza.”
    She shrugged. “Swagmen hide up here. Criminals. Sometimes blokes afraid of conscripting. Down in Flint they’re afraid of everything now. Shoot people, sometimes,” she added, almost as an afterthought.
    â€œShoot people? Who does?”
    â€œMr. Dalton shot a swaggie two years ago, while he was out hunting. Buried him in a gully. Dogs dug him up later on. I saw a bit of him in a dog’s mouth. An arm, I think.” She made a face.
    Quinn started. “Why on earth did he do that?”
    She regarded him as if he were a dim-witted child. “Because he could.”
    â€œDoes anyone know about … Mr. Dalton shooting that man?”
    â€œOf course not.”
    â€œHow do you know he did it?”
    â€œI just know.” She looked at him. “He does