Free Murderer's Thumb by Beth Montgomery

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