Hindsight (9781921997211)

A note from the publisher

Dear Reader,

At
Pantera Press
we're passionate about what we call
good books doing good things
TM
.

A big part is our joy in discovering and nurturing talented home-grown writers such as Melanie Casey.

We are also focused on promoting literacy, quality writing, the joys of reading and fostering debate.

CAN YOU READ THIS?

Sure you can, but 60% in our community can't. Shocking, isn't it? That's why
Pantera Press
is helping to close the literacy gap, by nurturing the next generation of readers as well as our writers. We're thrilled to support
Let's Read
. A wonderful program already helping over 100,000 pre-schoolers across Australia to develop the building blocks for literacy and learning, as well as a love for books.

We're excited that
Let's Read
operates right across Australia, in metropolitan, regional and also remote communities, including Indigenous communities in Far North Queensland, Cape York, and Torres Strait.
Let's Read
was developed by the
Centre for Community Child Health
and is being implemented in partnership with
The Smith Family
.

Simply by enjoying our books, you will be contributing to our unique approach and helping these kids. So thank you.

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supports.

Please enjoy
Hindsight.

For news about our other books, sample chapters, author interviews and much more, please visit our website:
www.PanteraPress.com

Happy reading,

Alison Green

First published in 2013 by Pantera Press Pty Limited

www.PanteraPress.com

 

This book is copyright, and all rights are reserved.

Text copyright © Melanie Casey, 2013

Melanie Casey has asserted her moral rights to be identified as the author of this work.

Design and typography copyright © Pantera Press Pty Limited, 2013

PanteraPress, the three-slashed colophon device,
great storytelling, good books doing good things, a great new home for Australia's next generation of best-loved authors,
WHY vs WHY, and
making sense of everything
are trademarks of Pantera Press Pty Limited.

We welcome your support of the author's rights, so please only buy authorised editions.

 

This is a work of fiction, though it may refer to some real events or people. Names, characters, organisations, dialogue and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, firms, events or locales is coincidental or used for fictional purposes.

 

Without the publisher's prior written permission, and without limiting the rights reserved under copyright, none of this book may be scanned, reproduced, stored in, uploaded to or introduced into a retrieval or distribution system, including the internet, or transmitted, copied, scanned or made available in any form or by any means (including digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, sound or audio recording, or text-to-voice). This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent recipient.

 

Please send all permission queries to:

Pantera Press, P.O. Box 1989 Neutral Bay, NSW 2089 Australia or [email protected]

 

A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry for this book is available from the National Library of Australia.

 

ISBN 978-1-921997-20-4 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-921997-21-1 (Ebook)

 

Cover and Internal Design: Luke Causby, Blue Cork

Front cover image: © quavondo, © Rudolf Vlcek

Back cover image: © iStock

Editor: Kylie Mason

Proofreader: Desanka Vukelich

Author Photo: Andrew Dunbar

Typesetting: Kirby Jones

Printed in Australia: McPherson's Printing Group

 

Pantera Press policy is to use papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

For Mum

PART ONE

Chorus: Come, poor thing, leave the empty chariot.

Of your own free will try on the yoke of Fate.

Aeschylus,
Agamemnon

CHAPTER

1

The man settled back into the shadows. He pulled his collar up to his chin and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. It was a bitter night and he'd been standing there for over an hour.

The doorway that concealed him was so dark he could hardly see his own feet. Sickly yellow light from the street lights died well before it reached him. This alleyway serviced the businesses that lined the two main streets of Jewel Bay and the council had decided that lighting was an unnecessary expense. He loved small-town thinking.

The wind picked up and he felt the chill start to sink into his bones. Still, he couldn't move. He had to remain invisible. His breathing was shallow and fast. His pulse was beating in time to the music in his head: Beethoven's Ninth,
Ode to Joy
.

A sound made him tense and sneak a quick look into the laneway. A figure was moving quickly in his direction, weaving between the scattered boxes and crates, stepping around a bin that was tipped over onto its side, spewing rotten food and crumpled packaging across the uneven bitumen.

The blood began to thunder in his ears and saliva flooded into his mouth. The person was close now, only a few metres away. It was her. He held his breath until she passed his doorway.

Stepping up behind her he threw one arm around her left shoulder, covering her mouth and nose with his hand. With the other hand he plunged a syringe into her neck. She started to thrash against him. He locked both arms around her. She kicked and struggled, grunting with fear and panic. He loved it when they fought; loved feeling all that desperation in his arms. She tried to scream, a muffled, gasping sound, before collapsing against him. Her arms and legs went slack and she made a strangled gurgling noise. Her bladder released and the smell of warm urine scalded his nostrils.

He held her until he was sure she was out. Then, leaning close to her ear, he whispered then laughed. Grasping her under the armpits he dragged her backwards into the deeper shadows. He turned her around to face him. Her eyes were closed — pity.

‘Never mind,' he whispered, ‘there will be plenty of time later.' He dragged her the remaining few metres back to the doorway. He checked his watch: three minutes, fifteen seconds. Not bad. Her head sagged forwards, her hair shrouding her face. Her mouth was slack and her tongue protruded. Saliva glistened in a long drool onto the front of her shirt.

He cocked his head, listening. A car drove down Main Street and receded into the distance. There were no other sounds of life, no voices, no footsteps; just the wind and the distant crashing of the sea.

He picked the woman up, one arm under her armpits, the other under her knees and hefted her into the crate, puffing with the weight of her. She felt heavier than her seventy or so kilos, but then again, she was almost a dead weight. He sniggered softly to himself as he lifted the lid into place.

The symphony in his head restarted as he stepped out of the doorway and walked down the lane back to his car on Main Street with a spring in his step. It was nice when things went to plan. He would come back in the morning, with the van.

As the sound of the man's footsteps faded, an untidy pile of packaging a few metres away from the doorway shuddered and started to move.

As the sheets of cardboard fell away, the pile took shape and unfolded into an old man. He stepped out of the shadows. Shooting a glance at Main Street, he took a few wobbly steps forward.

He'd woken just before the man leapt from the doorway and grabbed the girl. It'd happened so quickly. At first he'd thought he was dreaming; now he wished he had been. He'd huddled there listening to the shuffles and grunts punctuated by something that he couldn't quite grasp until it dawned on him that the man was laughing. He'd had to press his fist into his mouth to stop from gagging.

He leant out of the doorway and risked a quick glance down the laneway again just to make sure the man wasn't coming back. He looked at the crate in front of him. The lid didn't look like it was nailed down. With a bit of effort he managed to lift it. Holding his breath, he peered inside.

The young woman was folded into the foetal position, her hair covering her face. Tentatively, he touched her — she felt warm. He shook her. No response. Fumbling, he reached further into the crate, groping for her neck. He pushed her head to one side and felt for a pulse. Nothing. Bile flooded his mouth again. He gave way to the urge and retched onto the ground.

She was dead; there was nothing he could do. After a few moments he reached back into the crate and started to feel around her body. Puffing, he lifted her legs and was rewarded when his fingers brushed smooth leather. Tugging hard he pulled her handbag from under her. His nerves got the better of him and he turned and did a half shuffle, half run to the end of the lane then stepped cautiously around the corner looking for any sign of the man. No people, no cars. Just the empty street with a few shop windows dimly illuminated. Ducking back into the laneway, he rifled through the handbag, pulling out a wallet before throwing the bag into one of the bins lining the laneway.

He shuffled off down Main Street to find another spot to settle for the night, keen to get as far away from the crate and its contents as he could. He passed a phone booth, its glass crazed and orange light flickering, and stopped. He walked back to it and paused with his hand on the door. Muttering to himself, he pushed it open and stepped inside. With a shaking hand he lifted the handset and dialled.

‘Hello? Police … Hello? Yes I want to report a murder … Johns Lane, Jewel Bay … Yes … There's a body in a crate. No, he's gone now. No, no, I can't.' He slammed the receiver back in its cradle.

He left the booth and hurried down the street, throwing nervous glances over his shoulder until he was well away.