Field Walking

Field Walking

  by

  John Bishop

  Copyright 2012 John Bishop

  Cover by Joleene Naylor

  Cover photo by John Bishop

  ISBN for DG ebook 978-0-9872983-1-7

  ~~~~******~~~~

  CONTENTS

  Part One: Threats to Life

  Part Two: House on the River

  ~~~~******~~~~

  PART ONE

  THREATS TO LIFE

  An Accidental Meeting

  Tuesday 11th August 1992

  Wednesday 12th August 1992

  Judith heard the crash. Her first thought was that the south windmill had collapsed—a long expected event. Only last week, her farm manager, Tom, had given up the battle, declared the windmill un-repairable, and ordered a new one. Replaying the sound in her mind, however, she decided it had come from the direction of the main road.

  She had parked the Holden utility at the steps to the verandah. Barney Two, a kelpie blue-heeler cross, was asleep on the tray, waiting for some action. He shook his head and adopted his travelling position, nose poked around the cabin behind the driver.

  A truck and a car had met head on, just north of the gateway. Judith found the truckie on his knees, trying to pull the other driver through the window of the upturned sedan. There was an ominous smell of petrol. Together, they managed to slide the slightly-built body onto the grass verge, then onto a tarpaulin Judith took from the back of the ute. As gently as possible, they dragged the injured man clear of the vehicle. All this before either of them spoke—the danger of fire all too evident.

  ‘He’s alive,’ said the truckie. ‘Only just, by the looks of it. Oh shit, he’s a mess. He came straight at me; I had nowhere to go.’

  Judith unclipped the mobile telephone from her waistband.

  The truckie shook his head. ‘I’ve already called emergency. Nearest ambulance is on a job the other side of Calway. They put me through to the hospital. The only doctor is halfway to Bullermark on an urgent house call. Two hours at best.’

  Judith brought up a number from her contact list, and pressed call. Nursing Sister Virginia Underwood picked up after a few rings. ‘Hey, sweetie. Good to hear from you.’

  ‘It’s not good, Ginny. Bad smash at our front gate. I doubt whether this bloke has long.’

  ‘On my way!’ The line went dead.

  Judith looked up at the truckie, a large man whose blue singlet was damp with sweat, despite the mild weather. ‘You okay?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah. I’m fine.’

  Judith knelt on the verge to examine the other driver. The first aid training she’d been given by the education department was hardly relevant to these injuries. The man groaned.

  The truckie got a bottle of water and a pillow from the cabin of his truck. ‘Jesus mate, I couldn’t get out of your way,’ he said.

  ‘My fault,’ the injured man whispered.

  Judith showed him the water bottle. He nodded slightly. She poured a little of the water into his mouth. It dribbled out, diluted blood staining his shirt. He coughed, and winced. Then he took a little more water, and swallowed.

  ‘There’s help coming,’ Judith said.

  ‘I’m not going to make it.’ He was having trouble breathing; his voice was barely audible. Judith and the truckie leaned closer.

  ‘Jesus, mate!’ the truckie said.

  ‘My fault. Trying to read the name on the mailbox.’

  ‘Who were you looking for? I’ll call them,’ Judith said.

  ‘Banabrook.’

  ‘That’s my place.’

  ‘You Mrs Kingsley?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I s’pose I owe you an apology.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I was on my way to kill your husband.’

  ‘Max?’

  ‘The Reverend Maxwell Kingsley?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s the name all right. There’s a contract on him. I needed the money real bad. Guess I don’t now, eh? So what the hell, I’m buggered anyway, the info’s for free.’ He attempted a smile. ‘Just stay with me. Pretty face…better than a pain killer.’

  ‘A contract to kill Max?’

  ‘Lenny d’Aratzio wants him popped.’

  ‘d’Aratzio?’

  ‘I don’t want to know about this,’ said the truckie.

  The man screwed up his face. ‘Word is Lenny’s dying. He’s given out a few names he wants crossed off his list before he goes. Best you take care, love.’ He peered at Judith intently. ‘Can’t see proper. Messed up inside I reckon.’ He closed his eyes.

  ‘If he’s bleeding, it’s internal,’ Judith said.

  ‘Should we try CPR?’

  ‘No. He’s breathing and there’s a pulse. We’d most likely finish him.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Not your fault mate. Not your fault.’

  Those were the last words spoken by the man whose name, they discovered later, was Charles Magro—Mad Charlie as he was known around Kings Cross. He was still alive when Ginny arrived. She checked the colour of his gums. They were white. He died a few minutes later.

  ‘I suppose I should be glad he didn’t make it,’ Judith said. ‘But all I can think of is it’s a year since you had to attend to me out in the south paddock, Ginny. A year, and we still don’t have an ambulance service.’

  ‘Even if an ambulance had been close by, this bloke didn’t stand a chance,’ Ginny put a hand on the truckie’s shoulder and added, ‘Okay, buster. Sit yourself on the verge there. I’d better check your vital stats.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘No offence. But do what you’re told. Anybody can end up with shock after the shake-up you’ve had.’

  ‘The accommodation at the stables is booked until Saturday week.’ Judith slid plump pink fillets of trout onto Max’s plate. ‘The rooms up here are fully booked for the holidays. The artist in residence has gone off on a field trip for a couple of days, so we’re alone tonight.’

  ‘We need to tell Emily and Tony,’ Max poured wine. ‘The big question is where will I be least danger to others? I don’t want a hit man gunning for me at school. That’s not the sort of educational experience we’re trying for. Trudy will have to roster other staff to cover for me. I can do lesson plans and marking; but I should keep well away. At least I won’t have to do yard duty.’

  ‘Will the staff be told what’s happened?’

  ‘I hope so; but I’ll consult with Justin first. When I rang him, he already knew about the demise of Mad Charlie. He’s pulling officers off other jobs and there’ll be a team headed our way early on Thursday. He says hired guns are usually completely focused on their target and there’s not much danger for others unless they get in the way. Professional hit men know there’s nothing in it for them but possible grief if they miss their mark. They don’t get paid for knocking off a bystander, so it’s not worth the risk. Taking out the target is everything. Which means the more exposed I am, the less likely someone else will get hurt. Perhaps I should pitch a tent at the main entrance and get Tom to paint a bull’s-eye on it.’

  ‘It’s not a joke, Max.’

  ‘I know. But that does give me an idea. Why don’t I take a camp stretcher and set myself up in the vestry? Massive walls; massive doors; inaccessible windows; good mobile telephone reception; tea, coffee, cocoa. Above all, isolation from others and easy access if I call for help.’

  ‘You’re the vicar, Max. It’s an obvious place to go looking for you.’

  ‘You’re missing the point. We want them to find me; otherwise this thing won’t go away. We want them to find me; but in a place where I might have an advantage.’

  ‘Will you be there alone?’

  ‘Some would say I was in the company of t
he Almighty.’

  ‘Yes, but the Almighty doesn’t have much of a track record against the d’Aratzios of this world.’

  ‘I’m sure Justin’s intention is to have a minder close by.’

  Judith sighed and sat opposite Max to start her dinner.

  ‘Another good thing about being at the church is the silence,’ Max said. ‘Except when Mrs Whittle and the vestry committee are meeting, St Mark’s after dark is wonderfully quiet. Not an easy place for the ungodly to creep up on a body; especially if the body is sleeping with one of Tom’s shotguns. Is this from Andy’s trout farm?’

  ‘Yes. What do you think?’

  ‘Well, even allowing for a cook who could make an old boot taste delicious, I think he’s on a winner.’

  ‘All a cook could do to it would be to spoil it by leaving it on too long. The flavour is all in the fish.’

  ‘Then I withdraw the compliment.’

  If he’d hoped for a smile in response, he was disappointed.

  She sighed again, a sharp, angry little noise. ‘I’ve always said we mustn’t allow d’Aratzio to ruin our lives. Now the threat’s come so close, I’m feeling a lot less brave. I hope the driver of the truck is all right. He had roo-bars on the front; the truck was hardly marked; but I tried to get him to stay and rest up. He said he was way behind schedule and couldn’t risk