Free Arms Race by Nic Low Page A

one thing straight, Christie said. I’m not your daughter.
    You’re not my daughter, I said. I’m sorry I said that. That was stupid.
    Yes, she said. She leaned over and kissed my cheek. Stupid. You need to tell people
the truth. And I think you owe me a drink.
    We pushed open the door of the pub. There were nods and a polite smile or two from
the locals. I followed Christie to the bar, and tried not to stare at her switch-hipped
walk.
    What can I get you?
    The woman behind the bar was about my age. She had grey hair pulled back from a tanned,
no-nonsense face.
    Crownie for him, Christie said. Have you got cider?
    Cider?
    Sorry, Christie said. I just—
    Course we got cider. I’m kidding. Apple or pear?
    Pear, thanks.
    The woman looked at me with interest. You’re the engineer come to look at the mine,
right?
    Yes. I’m Steven. This is Christie.
    Lindy. How’s it going out there?
    So far, so good.
    It’d be bloody marvellous if you got it running again. There you go. She placed our
drinks on the bar and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. She smiled at me. So, how
you liking Enmore? Not too lonely?
    Well—
    Yeah, Christie cut in. A bit. It’s pretty quiet.
    Not much to do out there at your age, the woman said. How you keeping busy?
    Christie shrugged. Reading books. Or going exploring. It’s a weird place.
    Oh yeah? the woman said lightly.
    There’s a stolen ute dumped behind our house. I found bullets in the glove box.
    The woman raised her eyebrows.
    It’s been there a while, I said. But I guess we could report it.
    Wouldn’t bother, she replied. There’s cars dumped all over round here.
    And, Christie said, there’s a place that burned down that’s got a really creepy vibe.
    Oh. I know the one.
    You knew those people? What happened?
    It’s okay, I said. It’s none of our—
    Bloke was an alcoholic, the woman said. She took a cloth and began wiping down the
bar. House burned down, wife left him, daughter ran away. It happens.
    Definitely weird, Christie said. She sipped her drink. You know the other thing?
Steven’s got this scar that’s like a map of the mine and all those houses.
    A map?
    Check it out.
    Christie lifted my arm into the light, and I could see the woman watching, her top
lip faintly curled. I pulled my arm away, uncomfortable, embarrassed.
    It’s like the mine’s a scar itself, Christie said. I reckon something bad happened
out there.
    Yeah, like what? The woman threw her cloth into the sink, and there was a note in
her voice I did not like.
    Something full on, Christie said. Not sure I want to know.
    Anyway, I said, let’s—
    Maybe, the woman said, lowering her voice, you’ll find bodies at the bottom of the
mine.
    Christie leaned forward, nodding.
    People killed in the cave-in. Or maybe the mine was on an Aboriginal burial ground.
But you know what I really think?
    What?
    I think they threw bodies in there after a massacre.
    Oh, shit, Christie said, and there was a change in her face: youthful fascination
pinched out by something hard and cold. You think so?
    Oh, for sure, the woman said, her voice now ripe with scorn. There were massacres
all round here. Got to be connected. Your Abos, the scar, the mine, the ute, the
burned house, yeah, and the man who messes with his daughter. Got to be connected.
    Christie said nothing, her face slammed shut. I lifted the cold glass of my bottle
to my lips but could not drink. I felt old and wrong.
    Or, the woman said, it’s just a bunch of poor fucks living in the middle of nowhere,
with no jobs. There’s no mystery. Bad shit happens to people like that all the time.
You get that mine opened and watch it get better. Seventeen.
    Excuse me? I said.
    Seventeen dollars. Round here you have to pay for your drinks.
    I took out my wallet and handed her a twenty.
    She walked to the till, then called back over her shoulder. It’s just a hole in the
fucking