Free Day Boy by Trent Jamieson Page A

the
word out, take responsibility for the finding.’ Grove isn’t one for slinking around
anyway, but there’s a slyness to his thinking now that gives me a new bit of respect
for him.
    ‘What, you reckon there’s killers amongst us?’ We both laugh. Course there are!
    Grove gives me a look. ‘You thinking on killing me?’
    I pat my chest. ‘Got a knife on me here somewhere.’
    There’s a growling in the undergrowth, deep and low. And none too distant. Grove
and me aren’t laughing anymore, we’re bolting back to our bikes. Something heavy
moves slow behind us. I get the feeling it could catch us up in a few big steps and
I can’t help myself, I look back at where we’ve been, still running but gawking too.
I don’t catch nothing but a darkness moving between trees, moving away.
    ‘Watch it,’ Grove says. ’Cause I’ve nearly hit him from behind. Then we’re on the
bikes and round the bend and there’s no looking back.
    We’re on Main before we stop, and even then it’s only because we nearly collide.
I hit a bump, end up arse over tit on my back, and panting.
    ‘You right?’ Grove says. Big hand reaching down to help me up.
    I squint at him, winded a bit. ‘Right,’ I manage.
    ‘Just a dog,’ Grove says.
    ‘A dog from hell.’
    ‘Just a plain and simple dog. Maybe Certain’s.’
    ‘Petri don’t growl like that,’ I say. ‘Been chased out his farm enough times to know
that.’
    ‘Just a grumpy old dog,’ Grove says.
    ‘If that’s what you reckon.’
    ‘’S what I know.’

CHAPTER
13
    WE’RE TO TOWN Hall. The constable there squints at the pair of us. Name of Mick Jones—he
don’t like me much but there you go, he’s laughing at some sort of joke. He laughs
a lot, but he stops when he sees us.
    ‘You two look like ghosts.’
    ‘Seen a shallow grave out near the Patterson Yards,’ Grove says.
    Mick gets out of his chair. He’s a big fella, bald head spotted with the Sun, has
a long knife strapped to his belt.
    ‘You boys gonna show me?’
    We nod.
    ‘You disturb anything?’
    We shake our heads.
    ‘Something out there,’ Grove says. ‘Something that growled. Not that we would have
poked around anyway, but we for damn sure didn’t hang around.’
    Mick juts out his bottom lip. ‘Growled, you say?’
    He jangles some keys in his pockets. Walks in the room behind. Comes back with a
rifle and a shovel. Flat-headed.
    ‘You didn’t see this, boys.’ Guns aren’t exactly banned, but they’re not encouraged.
Maybe seen three of them before, outside of the deer hunt, all owned by auditors,
come in from hunting vagrants and the like.
    ‘See what?’ Grove says. I blink and look at him. That’s a sight more subtle than
Grove usually gets. Mick reaches out to ruffle his hair. Stops mid-movement, realises
what he’s doing. Pulls his hand back, and laughs deep and low.
    ‘Exactly,’ Mick says. ‘Exactly.’
    Mick on his horse Charliegirl, us on our bikes, down Main and Marriott, onto Barra
Road, past the pines. Mick doesn’t say a word, except some low whispers to Charliegirl.
This time we can smell it long before we see it, like we’re attuned. The horse gets
skittish and eye-rollery, but she keeps going, and Mick’s whispering gets louder.
All It’s OK girl and Settle darlin’, settle .
    We reach the edge of the road, and Mick drops to the ground.
    ‘You boys stay back,’ Mick says. ‘I don’t want none of you in this.’
    We stay on our bikes.
    Mick grabs the shovel and the rifle. Walks to the grave, looks down and something
big and dark comes rushing at him.
    Mick’s fast. Fella knows how to shoot, was city trained. He lifts that rifle and
fires. Once and twice. And the big thing’s howling and dropped on the ground. Mick’s
face is white. He aims careful and fires one more time, and it’s silent. Stops moving.
    And I get the feeling that we’re at the end of another story, that it ended bad,
and tragic. And that it’s coming into ours was only to falter