Free Murderer's Thumb by Beth Montgomery Page A

where to get off. She said I’d better watch out, or he’d be after me soon. Said he was a desperado and a cruel bastard.
    He goes spotlighting all the time. Loves killing things. Apparently he tortures cats, douses them with petrol and sets them alight. She reckoned he shot a fox one night and chopped off its tail while it was still alive. Gross!
    M.T.
    Thursday 24 August
    Aunty Jane made me and Frank call a truce. Just as well. He doesn’t know what I’m capable of. I can make things really ugly if I want to. So I agreed to do the dishes so long as he cooked and didn’t try and boss me around. Aunty Jane’s relieved. But seeing as she cooks most nights, that means Frank still does the dishes almost every night and I relax. Sucked in, Frank.
    Aunty Jane isn’t overbearing in the peace-keeping stakes. She just mentioned that I ought to sort it out because it was driving her mental. Whereas Mum would rant and rave and force me to say sorry, when I never wanted to, then heap on the punishment when I refused to cooperate. I guess Aunty Jane’s a bit like me, she doesn’t freak out at the slightest little thing. I wish she’d lose weight though. With all that bedspring squeaking, sooner or later she and Frank will crash through the floor.
    I shouldn’t be so critical I suppose, considering the size of my thighs. I just don’t want to get that big.
    When it’s raining I sit in the lounge at an old desk and do cryptic crosswords. If it’s dry I go exploring. There’s a line of cypress trees near the house that I can climb. It looks out over the dam and the driveway that twists down to the road like a giant ribbon. I wonder how big the farm is and where the borders are?
    There’s a guy down at the house. He’s tall and looks fit looking. He goes for a jog most evenings. I reckon he’s Emma’s brother. He’s thin like her and the Brolga and he’s got dusty blond hair. He spends a lot of time on the four-wheeler motorbike. I waved to him today and he nearly ran off the driveway. Maybe he likes me.
    I saw old Thackeray shout at him to pick something up at the shed. Shouted at him like he’d shout at a dog. Rude bastard. Then he drove off. Thackeray spends a lot of time on his tractor. I often see him heading down the drive with a big round bale stuck on the forks. At least he cares for his cows.
    More than what my stepdad ever does. All he cares about is his job and what the board thinks. Screw the board.
    M.T.
    Friday 25 August
    Emma gets around. I saw her today at lunchtime meeting this guy outside the school fence. His hands were all over her arse. He looks hot, bit of a surfer type. I wonder if he knows she’s only fifteen, jail bait. He drove off in a red car and she came back straightening her uniform, with a big smile on her face.
    She told me about him on the way home. He works at the hardware in Booradoo and his nickname’s Lugger. She says she’s only been seeing him a few days. Before that she was with some other guy. She warned me not to say anything to her parents though. She said her Dad would freak. I reckon he would, too. She says her mum calls her ‘the great harlot’ to her face. Bit harsh. What a weirdo.
    I read Emma’s palms today. Her hands are really short, considering how lanky she is. She’s practical but super emotional too. There’s even fame written there. There are no secrets when you know how to read palms. That’s what Granny Bell taught me. And she told me how to watch for all the things people do with their hands: how they fold them, how they use them. It’s not just the lines but the shape and flexibility of a hand that can tell you so much.
    After I did the reading Emma asked if I was into ouija boards. She wants to get a group together. I said I hadn’t tried, but I’d be part of it. Sounds cool.
    I was right about the tall guy on the four-wheeler. It is Emma’s