Vanished by James Delargy (best books to read in life txt) 📗

sheets of tin and exposing it to the sun, the moon and the elements. The kitchen would remain semi-outdoors. Until Lorcan could get the wall and roof fixed. After they had cleared and swept the house and laid traps for anything that might have been lurking in the corners.

There was a house in here somewhere. Maybe a home. She could visualize it. And that was the first step. It had to be.

7

Lorcan

‘A book?’

‘Yeah, a book. About us setting up home out here.’

‘For six weeks,’ she reminded him. In return, he gave her a non-committal nod. If he could get the house up and running and Dylan into the local school – wherever that was – he could argue for them to stay until the end of term. Eighteen weeks. Then next term. And the term after that. If they liked it.

‘What sparked this brainwave?’ she continued.

Lorcan watched as she put the plastic crate that was filled with plates and cutlery down. After three hours of sweeping dust and dead insects from all the rooms they were transporting their stuff in from the ute, sheltering from the early afternoon sun. Already Dylan had quit, parking himself behind the wheel of the ute pretending to drive it, the window cranked down to make sure air circled, like he was a dog. It would have been embarrassing. Had anyone been around to see it.

He put his hand on the old table they had dragged from the living room to the kitchen. It would do as a dining table. Once it had been given a good clean. They had brought enough anti-bac to suffocate the whole town. One of Nee’s stipulations in agreeing to come.

‘I was just thinking,’ he started.

‘Thinking got us into this mess.’

He pushed the box with the two-ring camping stove and cooking utensils to the middle of the table. It creaked. He would have to look at tightening the screws. No one wanted it to collapse in the middle of dinner.

‘I’ll take some video too as an add-on exclusive to the book. Extra content.’

This was intended to pique her interest. Vlogging was Naiyana’s thing and she’d had plenty of practice in some challenging situations, recording the raids of testing centres, disrupting companies and corporations. A dangerous occupation. And he should know. He had worked for a vicious crook.

‘What do you know about writing a book? You barely read, never mind write.’

‘It isn’t fiction. I don’t have to make it up. Just tell the truth.’

‘Once you fix this place up so we can live in it,’ she reminded him.

‘As well as.’

Lorcan watched his wife pause, shake her head and then shrug. She hadn’t given up, just realized that there was nowhere to go. No common ground. They would stay at the opposite ends of this argument. But he was determined to have the last word. He had plans. Repairing the house and their family.

‘Come with me,’ he said, holding his hand out.

‘Let’s get this finished,’ she protested but he spread his arms and ushered her out the front door.

Dylan was still behind the wheel of the ute, bouncing up and down as if manoeuvring over particularly bumpy terrain, shouting at imaginary people to get out of the way as he made his urgent delivery.

Turning her around, he pointed to the house that was now in front of them.

‘First I’ll set up the generator so that we have electricity. Then I’ll mend the gable wall and fix the roof. Then I’ll get to work on the inside. Plaster, tile, build furniture.’

‘And water?’

‘We passed a well.’

‘Where?’

‘Close to where Skippy keeled over.’

She tilted her head at him but it forced a smile from her, dragging the sweetness back to a face he had fallen in love with all those years ago that now only briefly returned after accomplishing all the chores an adult had to do. Your love goes to your kid first and what’s left goes to your partner. Or football. Or golf.

‘We can make do with the bottled water for the time being,’ he said, wedging a giant plastic container of water under each arm and hauling them inside.

8

Emmaline

Suddenly the instruction to take a left at the dead kangaroo made sense. Emmaline pulled up outside the bungalow. Although it was in a state of disrepair, it was practically a mansion compared to the rest of the town.

As she exited the 4x4 and stretched legs that cried out with joy after being in a cramped airplane and behind the wheel for the last four hours, a couple of local cops filtered out from their own vehicle. She had been informed their names were Rispoli and Barker. Their crisp, clean shirts indicated they had been basking in the delights of air con while they waited for her.

As a detective from the MCS, she held rank. What she didn’t know was what she would be working with.

As she walked towards them they stayed in formation on either side of the vehicle as if afraid she was going to steal it. Maybe they hadn’t been expecting a dark-skinned police officer. Or maybe that was her own bias talking. Or previous experience, her dad eyed with outright suspicion even when on council business, his authority and presence questioned.

‘Tell me what you know that you think I might not.’

This was a question to gauge competence. If she had been in their shoes she would tell her everything. Always assume that the new entrant doesn’t know what has happened. Half-telling a story provided room for something to be left out. Possibly something major.

The older one, Barker – a senior constable, given the two stripes on his upper arm – glanced at the younger one. His lined face wore years of worry. Someone who didn’t like dealing with superiors. Possibly jealousy, possibly afraid of saying the wrong thing. Or conscious of an upcoming retirement and the lovely safe pension beyond the fence. ‘We have cordoned off the crime scene.’

Emmaline looked at the tape.