Fatal Impact (17 page)

26

A
fter leaving the surgery, Anya decided to stick to her original plan to buy groceries and cook a meal for her mother. They could talk in private without any interruptions, in a non-threatening atmosphere. She bought a leg of lamb to roast, steaks and a chicken to marinate and freeze. She unpacked bags of fresh vegetables, bread, sugar, milk and some staples that the pantry had been lacking.

She was wiping down the fridge shelves when the door banged.

‘What did you do?’ Jocelyn threw her bag on the table as Anya turned.

‘I just bought some–’

‘How dare you!’ Her mother’s face was flushed.

Anya had no idea what was wrong. She closed the fridge door.

‘Don’t stand there acting innocent. You’ve been in Miriam’s room. Again. After I told you to stay out.’

Anya was shocked by the aggressive tone. Jocelyn’s mental state had rapidly deteriorated; mood swings, paranoia, now delusions. She needed urgent help.

She spoke gently. ‘Mum, I haven’t been in Miriam’s room. We need to talk about what is going on.’

‘Don’t you turn this on me. The photos were moved.
I know exactly where they were and they’ve been moved.’ She stood rigidly, hands on hips. ‘There are only two people in this house and it sure as hell wasn’t me.’ She stepped forward. ‘What else are you lying about?’

Her mother was completely irrational, and was beginning to frighten Anya. ‘That room is special to you, and I respect that. Mum, can we please sit down and talk. I can make us a cup of tea–’

‘You’re deceitful, just like your father.’

Anya felt her own anger and hurt well up. She struggled to
stay calm. ‘This has nothing to do with Dad. I haven’t lied
to you about anything, or kept anything from you. I don’t
know why you keep–’

‘What about the phone call you took and didn’t tell me about?’

She reached into her pocket and held up her phone. ‘I check every number and didn’t recognise it. I called that woman back and gave her one hell of a story.’

Anya felt sick. Her mother must have ranted about the conspiracy by PT to poison Len’s crop. If it ever got to print, she would appear completely unhinged and paranoid. Christian Moss had used the word unstable.

Jocelyn slammed her fist into the wall, scaring Anya even more. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’ She stormed down the corridor and out the front door.

Anya’s mind raced as she chased her mother, who was at her car. Instead of getting in, she paced on the gravel drive, shouting.

‘You had no right to gag me. I want to comment. I want to talk to every damn reporter about my missing child.’

‘Wait. You wanted to talk about Miriam? To a reporter? They’re parasites, dredging up our past to sell papers.’

‘You have no idea. Why would you? You moved away the first chance you got, made your own life. Just like your father and brother. You’ll never understand. Miriam was’ – she punched her chest – ‘MY child.’

Her mother let the words hang.

Seeing her mother like this was heartbreaking. Anya fought to hold back tears.

But she also felt decades of anger and hurt rage. ‘And she was MY little sister. Do you honestly believe we all just forgot? Damien may have never met Mimi, but there wasn’t a day he wasn’t affected by it.’ Anya could not stop once the pain began to pour out. ‘You might have lost a child that day, but Damien grew up without an emotionally involved mother. As far as he knew, your patients meant more to you than he ever did.’

‘You have a hide lecturing me about my son.’ She hit her chest again, this time her mouth contorted in anger. ‘You have no idea what it takes to parent a child.’

Anya’s heart drilled as her eyes welled with tears. Her mother was good at going straight for the jugular.

‘You barely even know Ben.’

‘And now you’re giving that useless pig another chance. So you’ve learnt absolutely nothing.’

Anya sucked in a breath and tried to calm down.

‘God, Mum. This is just like you. Turning everything around to be my fault.’

‘Everything
is
your fault. My Miriam would be here now,’ she screamed, ‘if it weren’t for you! You were supposed to be watching her. All you had to do was hold her hand while I looked after the injured player!’

So that was it. After all these years, Jocelyn Reynolds had admitted who she held to blame for Miriam’s disappearance.

The pair stood, emotionally wasted.

Anya felt like a knife had ripped through her core. Her childhood finally made sense.

Wiping her eyes, she took a staccato breath. ‘I’ll get my things.’

Jocelyn grabbed Anya’s arms. ‘This could be my last chance to get Miriam back. Someone out there knows what happened to her.’

After a moment’s silence, Anya turned to go inside.

The Mazda door clunked and the engine revved. The car skidded as Jocelyn turned out of the drive.

27

A
fter an hour, there was no sign of her mother and no answer on the mobile. Dark clouds massed in the sky. The temperature had dropped; the air had a sudden chill to it.

Anya opened the door to Miriam’s room. There had never been a memorial or funeral. Mimi had been suspended in a timeless limbo. Forever young, forever innocent. Forever three. Except that Anya was no longer five years old.

The photos on the tallboy were all happy ones. Anya couldn’t remember most of them being taken. Colours were fading and yellowing with time. The sight of two skinny girls poking their bellies out for the camera made her cringe. Hers was a deep crimson terry-towelling jumpsuit and Mimi’s was green. The high elastic waists made their legs look like stilts. She wondered if Ben’s children would make fun of his knee-length board shorts and long rash vests in years to come.

In another frame, Miriam held Anya’s hand and looked up adoringly. They were dressing up. Miriam had always wanted to be the princess and had a cardboard cone on her head with a scarf poking through the pointy end. One of Anya’s creations. An elastic around the chin kept it in place. As the prince, Anya wore a bed-sheet cloak to rescue the damsel in the tower from the naughty man, as Mimi called him. Fairy tales were the seeds of their imaginations and were never meant to have happy endings.

The truth was, Anya still felt guilty about letting go of Mimi’s hand that day at the football match. And nothing could take that pain away, or bring her sister back. Saying a quiet prayer for Miriam, she left the room and closed the door again.

She cried for her sister, and herself. Deciding to wait, another hour passed and Anya became concerned. Jocelyn always had a quick temper, but cooled off quickly. She began to worry more.

Calls to Len and Audrey confirmed neither had seen or heard from Jocelyn. They promised to let her know if there was any word. Bob Reynolds answered his phone on the first ring. Anya asked about Evelyn, whose condition hadn’t changed. Her father sensed something was very wrong, but Anya didn’t want to burden him now. Another hour later. Still no sign of Jocelyn. Anya switched on the evening news. The only thing to do was wait for her mother to come home in her own time.

Leading the news was the minister’s announcement of the major investment in the region. Anya hit the remote control and turned the sound up. Footage of the exchanges preceded comments by locals, who appeared more than happy to have been interviewed after the event.

‘These dirty layabouts wouldn’t know what work was. They’re chardonnay-loving, latte-sipping Greenies who tell the world how to live. They’re not from here. These protesters go around looking for trouble and find it everywhere.’ The grey-haired gentleman stared into the camera. ‘You can quote me on this. Bugger off back to whatever dirty hole you crawled out of. Nobody wants you here.’

There was a voice-over about a representative attempting to gatecrash the minister’s conference without any mention of a petition. Surprisingly, there were no images of the medical student, or the numbers she represented. The protester in the dreadlocks was in an image behind the newsreader, mouth open wide in anger. The newsreader then led into the press conference inside the main PT building. The minister candidly apologised for the harassment of the press and tourists by the protesters, who were, he said, clearly puppets for anti-progress extremists and had been shipped in from the mainland specifically to target the good people of the northwest.

He was photogenic and knew how to charm the press. He announced that PT was doing Tasmania and the country proud. Then the reporter flicked to more interviews. Anya recognised some of the people from the bus tour to the cottage.

‘PT is the best thing to happen to us,’ one blurted. It could have been an advertorial, not a news item. There was little balance in the coverage. And it didn’t in any way represent both sides of the story Anya had witnessed. Jenny and Mia Quaid weren’t mentioned in the bulletin. There was a knock at the door and Anya hurried to answer it.

Constable Simon Hammond appeared, police cap in his hand. ‘Sorry to disturb. Audrey Lingard said you rang and I thought I’d see if Jocelyn’s turned up.’

Anya felt nauseated. ‘Not yet.’

‘Is it out of character for her to take off like that? I mean, she isn’t a missing person until twenty-four hours have passed, but she’s pretty important to a lot of folks around here.’ He glanced around at the skid marks on the gravel.

‘I don’t know anymore.’

‘I see.’ He put his cap back on. ‘If you like, we can check out the obvious places, make sure her car hasn’t broken down .
. .’

He didn’t need to say what Anya had been thinking. That the Mazda might have run off the road or hit a tree, given the way Jocelyn had sped off.

‘I’d appreciate that.’ She grabbed her phone and slipped on the jumper Jocelyn had left on the bed for Anya to use during her stay. She closed the door and locked it with the spare key. If Len was on guard, any intruders would swiftly meet his shotgun.

By 6.30 pm, they had exited the driveway and rain clouds opened. It drizzled on the way to Longford. They drove past the bakery, antiques shop, restaurants and past the park. No sign of the Mazda. By the time they hit the highway, the windscreen wipers pounded at full speed, struggling to keep up with the downpour. Anya closed her eyes and listened to the hypnotic sound of the metronomic swipes.

The car cabin was stiflingly warm.

‘Temp okay for you?’

Anya opened her eyes and nodded. ‘Mum’s jumper would hold up in Antarctica.’

He glanced at her. ‘She wants to protect you. She’s very proud, you know. Private, but you can tell she’s proud of you.’

Anya had an elbow on the base of the window. She bit her tongue.

‘Don’t mean to pry, but can I ask why she took off?’

Anya looked at the man beside her. He had none of the regular hallmarks of a country cop, despite knowing most of the locals. The easiest way to avoid a question was to deflect with another. She had a lifetime of experience in that department.

‘How long have you lived around here?’

Simon glanced sideways with a hint of a smile.

‘Born in Hobart but my father got work at the pulp mill in Bernie. He had a dream of breeding the perfect Wagyu beef. He loved the marbling of the meat and knew there would be a big market for it in Asia, the Middle East and America.’

‘
Had
a dream?’

‘Yeah, he saved for years and started a small herd. Spent time on King Island learning everything he possibly could. He died of multiple sclerosis last year.’

‘I’m sorry.’

The wipers swished away. ‘Your mother was very good to him. Made sure he died the way he wanted – at home. On the upside, with all the cattle, I learnt how to cook a mean steak.’

In the distance, a hunched figure in a long coat and baseball cap trudged along the side of the road. The headlights caught him, but he didn’t stop, instead, waving them on with one arm without even glancing around.

Simon slowed the car and pulled over. The man stood on Anya’s side of the car. Anya wound down the window.

The man stopped for a moment then wandered over, through puddles and mud, to the passenger side.

‘Need a ride?’ the officer enquired.

The stranger leant down and forward, placing a forearm on the door. Anya moved her hand to shield her eyes from the rain and noticed letters tattooed on his nicotine-stained fingers.

‘No thanks, mate. It’s all good.’ He stepped back.

Anya suddenly felt someone grip the back of her head and slam her face down into the dashboard. Pain seared through her forehead as a deafening bang rang out. Disoriented, she turned to Simon and saw the policeman exit the car, his gun out. She could smell discharge. Her heart lurched in her chest.

Hammond shouted, ‘Stay down.’

Anya’s mind spun. The man had refused a lift and the policeman had pushed her out of the way to shoot at him. It made no sense. She couldn’t see either man and didn’t know what had happened. She grabbed her phone, pushed open the door and clambered onto the road verge, head pounding.

Simon was squatting next to the man’s body, gun still ready, reaching to feel for a carotid pulse with his free hand. Anya handed him the phone and fell to her knees and unbuttoned the man’s coat.

Then she saw what looked like a yellow plastic water squirter by his side.

‘It’s a pool toy,’ she screamed, and plugged the hole in his chest with her fist. ‘A kids’ toy!’

‘Help me,’ he gasped. His breathing was rapid and he moaned in pain. The hat had slipped off, revealing an almost shaved head. Blood oozed through his T-shirt. She pulled off her jumper and pressed it hard against the wound. ‘Call for help!’ she ordered. ‘He needs an ambulance!’ The pulse was thready.

The policeman stood motionless, gun still pointed at the man on the ground.

‘You’ve got to get help. He’s bleeding to death!’

Anya caught sight of a pink plastic drink bottle in the man’s left hand as he spilt its contents across his body and hers. The smell stung her nose and lungs. Petrol.

Simon’s boot kicked the container from the man’s hand and he yanked Anya backwards, hard.

She tried to get a grip on the ground with her shoes but the officer was too strong. With the strength of two men, he flipped her onto her feet.

‘RUN!’ he commanded, ripping her arm as he propelled them along.

Whoomph
.

The burst of heat from behind threw them both forward. As she turned, flames engulfed the man, metres from them. An animalistic howl was quickly consumed by the sound of the fire. The stench of burning flesh filled her nostrils as the policeman hurled her further away. She stumbled and landed on all fours. Coughing, she tried to clear her lungs. Simon ripped off her shoes and hauled her to her socked feet.

‘Get your clothes off. Now!’ he yelled, and began to rip down her trousers. Still struggling to inhale, Anya punched at him.

‘He doused petrol on them.’

Realising the risk, she hurriedly complied while he ripped his boots off and hurled them into the distance.

‘Stay well back.’ He ran to the car boot and extracted a small fire-extinguisher, just as flames licked the side door of the car.

Anya watched, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The man had poured petrol on her and tried to set her alight. But why? Instead, he had set himself on fire. How had the officer known what the man was going to do? Simon blasted the man’s body with flame retardant. Why had he shot so quickly?

There was no hint of movement on the ground.

‘He’s beyond help. I’ll do what I can to stop the fire.’

Anya approached. The man’s lifeless face was charred and unrecognisable. Free skin hung off contracted bones of the left forearm and hand. The right hand was meshed with the plastic weapon by his side. Clothing had melted into his skin. The only remnant identifiable was one white sneaker with a green stripe. She covered her mouth and nose. Of all the smells she had ever experienced, this was the worst. Self-immolation. An agonising way to die.

Whoever this man was, he had tried to kill her along with him.

Anya’s heart hammered. She coughed again. This time her stomach muscles convulsed. She resisted the urge to vomit.

A loud whoosh sounded. She turned to see the car interior alight. Simon shook the extinguisher then dropped it. He snatched a rug from the opened boot. ‘Run!’

Anya didn’t need to be told twice. She took off, with what was left of her strength. The policeman was quickly at her side again, yanking her by the wrist this time. She moved her legs as fast as possible in the slippery, uneven ground. Hammond’s strength and speed kept her upright more than once.

Pops and hisses sounded behind them in the blaze.

Finally, struggling to breathe, Anya fell to the ground and gasped for air. Rain ran into and out of her mouth. Simon bent over, chest heaving.

Body soaked and rain still bucketing, Anya began to
tremble, trying to comprehend what had happened. The
shivering became uncontrollable as rain pounded their bodies.

Officer Hammond removed his jumper and knelt at her side. ‘Put this on.’

Teeth chattering, she complied. ‘How .
. .
did you
. . .
know?’

He wrapped the rug around her legs.

‘Something about him. When we stopped he walked straight through two giant puddles, didn’t even try to go around them.’ He rubbed her arms. ‘When he got closer I saw he had something under the coat.’

Anya’s mind flashed to what she had seen of his sneakers. He wasn’t a farmer. Boots were the footwear of choice for locals. The car was now gutted with flames. Like rice breakfast cereal, the fuel snapped, crackled and popped. Petrol must have transferred to the side door when the man leant into the car. Anya’s side. Either it had leaked or he had deliberately tried to incinerate them. Simon’s quick reactions had saved both their lives.

They sat staring at the blaze in the distance that was the police car.

‘Most of the locals drive diesel cars and trucks. Smart thing would be to stay with your vehicle in this weather.’ Simon shook his head. ‘Didn’t you see the way he locked eyes right on you as he headed towards us
. . .
He was dangerous.’ This time he shivered.

‘Thanks,’ was all Anya could think of to say. She hadn’t even noticed the man was looking directly at her. One word didn’t cover what she was feeling, but words failed her right now.

‘The area command won’t be thanking me. That beast of a vehicle was only two months old.’

A plume of black smoke erupted. Then a rumble. The explosion thrust Anya forward. The policeman’s body took the brunt of it.