 
### Narrator Magazine

### Central Tablelands

### Spring 2011

### Smashwords Edition

narrator MAGAZINE is published by MoshPit Publishing

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The copyright for each item in this publication rests with the author of that piece. Please contact us at Narrator Magazine if you wish to contact any contributor featured herein.

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### Cover: 'Trapped' by Aida Pottinger

I am interested in exploring images which arrest the eye, and creating drawings and paintings that are arrived at spontaneously. I work from life and landscape and also use inspirational photographs and drawings of people and landscapes, and manufactured, made and built objects as a jumping off point. I like to push the source material to capture an atmosphere or mood visually echoing memories and emotions. My work emerges out of a memory I may be working on and is a subconscious recognition of how the earth gives birth, nurtures, sustains and eventually reclaims the life on it.

Please visit me at:

<http://theambiguityofhorizon.blogspot.com/>

### A few words from the publisher ...

Welcome to the First Edition of Narrator Magazine Central Tablelands

It's certainly exciting being able to spread our wings beyond the Blue Mountains and we hope that this is the start of a bigger, wider audience for both Narrator and for your writing.

If you're only just finding out about Narrator now, then you may like to join us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/narratormagazine and read more about how it all works on our website at <http://www.narratormagazine.com.au/>

The main aim of Narrator is to help provide an outlet for creative writing, and to help people develop their creative writing skills by competing with each other.

Cash prizes are awarded for the best three entries ($200, $100 and $50) as judged by our 'secret judge', who is revealed in the following issue, along with the winners and their entries. We also have a $50 People's Choice award.

In time, we hope to bring you a 'best of the best' issue, where we bring the best entries from both Blue Mountains and Central Tablelands issues for the prior year.

So start writing—get those fingers on the keyboard and think about sharing all those poems, essays and short stories that have been swirling around in your head over the years!

And if you belong to a writing group, or take classes in creative writing, or know someone who does, please make sure you let them know about Narrator—the more contributors, the better the quality of the reading, and the better it will be for everyone.

So that's it from me for this inaugural Central Tablelands issue. Time for you to start turning the pages and see what your fellow residents have contributed!

Jenny Mosher

September 2011

### Caricature:

Jenny Mosher's caricature (above) by Blue Mountains artist Todd Sharp. For more info, visit <http://www.toddasharp.com/>

### Table of Contents

### Poetry

Bidding War - Alexandra Nagy

Questions - Alexandra Nagy

The Journey - Ruth Withers

The Little Tear - Ruth Withers

The Waiting Photograph - Jill Baggett

Why? - Cheryl Ianoco

### Short Stories

Always the Children - JE Doherty

Drifter's Ridge - Ross Stephenson

Nasma - Christine Sweeney

Public Performance - Jill Baggett

Re-Kindled Love - DJ Peters

The Dancing Suit - JE Doherty

The Eyes Have It - Paul Phillips

The Portrait - Vickie Walker

Treasures - Rebecca Wilson

### Nasma - Christine Sweeney

I was very, very excited. I had promised my friend Nasma that I would 'drop in for a visit' now that she had returned home to Lebanon and now I was here. As we flew in to land at the airport, I saw for the first time the Mount Lebanon Range that rises high and suddenly from the coast. The number and density that made up Beirut were startling to me as I viewed the city, nestling in the coastal plain, from the sky. Making my way with the rest of the passengers, from the plane to the tarmac and onto the bus that took us to the bullet-ridden shack of an airport, I had to stop myself from staring at the soldiers with very big guns who were standing or strolling about the place.

So why was I here? Back in Australia in 1994, I had completed a Volunteer Home Tutor certificate course run by the NSW Adult Migrant English Service (AMES). AMES had set up the program because it had identified that the free English tutoring available to Australian migrants precluded people (predominantly women) who were housebound, were mothering young children or unable to travel to get to the classes.

I joined 25 other potential tutors and we were given as much guidance and encouragement and as many teaching tips as possible. My first student was Nasma. With no experience or idea of what to expect (I reckoned that as a trained and experienced actor I could always 'act' my way through any sticky moments. I felt my few years as a mime artist would really come in handy). I threw myself into the unknown world of trying to teach English conversation skills.

My first lesson, I remember was pretty nerve racking for Nasma and myself. Based on the typical student profile I was expecting a 20 year old married woman, not long in Australia and pregnant with her first child. I had brought along simple anatomy and physiology illustrations on pregnancy and birth written in both English and Arabic that I found in the AMES library—I had thought myself to be sensitively and thoughtfully prepared. I don't know what Nasma was expecting but I do recall she kept apologising for not being able to speak English.

Nasma had led me into the small salon at the front of the house in the working class industrial suburb of Botany where she lived with her husband. Her small son, Ali was nearly one and her husband or jowsik, Majed was running a Lebanese take away food shop in Kings Cross. The house was always full of people, and as we progressed with our classes I realised most of them were family members. Our classes were always interrupted. It seemed Nasma was the only one able to answer some particular question, pass on information, take a phone call or soothe Ali like only a mother can. Nasma seemed to organise everyone and keep the extended family in motion. She was bright, funny, beautiful and intelligent. Also, I think the rest of the family liked to interrupt to check me out. Who was this morrshd?

Majed's parents Abu and Em Ali arrived in Australia with their eight children in 1975, following their eldest daughter who had migrated here in the early seventies. The family left Lebanon at a time of escalating violence with the outbreak of civil war.

Keesing's Contemporary Archives has this entry for August 18-24 1975, the year the Nasrallah's came to Australia. 'Serious fighting occurred in Beirut from mid-April 1975 between militia of the right wing, predominantly Christian Phalanges Party (Kataeb) and Palestinian guerrilla groups based in Lebanon, causing the resignation of M. Rashid Solh's Government on 15 May. The crisis was regarded as the most serious since the 1958 civil war, it being estimated by Lebanese sources that up to early July 2300 people were killed in the fighting and over 16,000 injured. Throughout the remainder of the 20th Century Lebanon experienced extreme political turmoil. There was ongoing fighting between militia including Christian Phalanges', Shiite Muslims, Sunni Muslims and members of the Druze community, the Iranian backed Hezbollah, the Palestinian Liberation Organisation (PLO) and the various military including Israeli Armed Forces (IAF), the Israeli backed South Lebanese Army SLA) and the Syrian Army. The fighting led to the deployment of the UN Interim Forces in Lebanon (UNIFIL) and the Multinational Forces (MNF), civilian oppression and countless deaths. I knew Majed's family were Sunni Muslim's and not part of any militia group or involved in militia fighting but one of the sons had been picked up on the street, 'detained' and tortured by Christian militia. So the family got out.

Thomas Friedman, an American Jew who had lived in Lebanon for many years and loved the place and the people, describes in detail the politics and violence of this 1975 civil war period in his 1989 book From Beirut to Jerusalem—One Man's Middle Eastern Odyssey.

I read this book with fascination but the life Nasma used to tell me about during our late night chats was a very different one of happy domestic scenes and family fun. We got to know and like each other despite the lack of a common language and we spent lots of time hanging out, eating, looking after babies and chatting at her home. I learned about her family who were still in Lebanon and who had lived through the war—her mother Layla, father Abu Habib (younger brother to Majid's Father) and her seven brothers and sisters—Ali, Souad, Hussein, Rudda, Widian and Khoudda. Nasma was the oldest at 22. I too had seven brothers and sisters. We decided that her Muslim upbringing and my Catholic one had lots of similarities. Religion was a major force in how our families were structured and how we behaved. Both our fathers were the 'head of the household' (actually her father was the head of four households, having taken four wives). The sons were feted and the daughters expected to be chaste, modest and hardworking in the home. Muslim girls took the scarf and similarly I could remember when lace mantillas were still worn in church. A seed of friendship was sown. I loved hearing about her family intrigue and drama and Nasma looked forward to the news of my life 'outside'.

Three years and another baby later (for Nasma) I had kept my word and was mounting the stairs to her apartment in Torl just a couple of kilometres north of Nabatieh (the scene of some of the worst fighting in South Lebanon).

I had read the Lonely Planet Guide to Lebanon and had prepared a list of places I wanted to visit and things we would do together. These plans for the main part were abandoned in the wake of what was to follow. The first week, every member of the extended family visited (they visited each other incessantly anyway) to meet 'Nasma's friend from Australia'.

The following weeks held weddings, cooking, family visits, changing babies' nappies, cooking, late night chats (this time with fresh Lebanese ice cream), shopping at the souk, cleaning, swapping each other's clothes, cooking, washing, cleaning and most of all getting to know her family. I was not destined for any tourist spots (well, we did visit some, but that is another story) or souvenir shopping. Mine was an odyssey of the interior, domestic life.

Nasma's mother Layla, and her family took to me immediately. Layla was a Christian and felt we had a bond because of this—whether it was the reason or not, I felt the same. I could see this person was where Nasma got a lot of her personality and warmth from, her fantastic cooking skills and her generosity. Towards the end of my visit Layla said, 'Why don't you stay here—I will look after you. You are welcome in my house as one of my daughters.' For me this was the one statement that made me howl inside. Without words she had known I wanted what she was offering. I wanted to say 'yes.'

I returned to Lebanon a year or so later in 1998 (this time with my own car and itinerary), met more new babies and attended more weddings and shall go again. For me the friendship I have forged with Nasma, a woman from a place very different from mine, with a life very different to mine and from a country that is very different to mine is to be treasured.

After a rare moment of disagreement, raised voices and stand-offs, Nasma and I were sitting in silence. I looked at her and said 'Well I have to say, your English is very good.' She replied 'I have a good teacher.'

### Questions - Alexandra Nagy

The look that's buried behind your eyes as you tell me who is right.

As if you know what has happened's wrong, though still putting up a fight.

Resisting tears I gulp my pride and start off with a plea.

We're going round in circles here—don't you know you're hurting me?

I don't look ashamed, embarrassed, upset as you spit out words of hate.

And looking back on generations I can't help but think... is this my fate?

What have I done so badly?

Your exterior is so tough.

Every time I've apologised... isn't this enough?

You tell me all the time about how you never cry, yet behind the yelling, screaming are you breaking down inside?

I'll smile yesterday's thoughts away as if they didn't matter.

Though piece by piece as I laugh away everything begins to shatter.

I try to make some sense of it; it's hard to let it be.

Is this making me stronger for things I'm yet to see?

I know that you're aware yourself, like many have said is true.

Why are we making each other bleed?

Open your eyes; I'm just like you...

### Always the Children - JE Doherty

I make the coffee strong though I know sleep will be hard to find even after the long drive home. The station is quiet except for occasional buzz of the radio and the tap-tap-tap of the keyboard. I pull the last of the paperwork from the printer, hurriedly scrawling my name at the bottom of the page. After a quick glance, I toss it into the filing tray for morning. I hesitate at the door, and then return to check the roster. Of late it has a habit of changing almost magically from day to day.

I should have walked out when I had the chance. The roster has changed. Tomorrow, I'm working with the Ogre. Now, not only will sleep be hard to find, but waking will be even harder.

The Ogre is a formidable woman, a sergeant who before coming here, spent her entire working life lecturing school kids on stranger danger and road safety. She had never faced an angry man, never done a real day's police work in her life and she isn't about to start now.

When you greet the prospect of the next day's work with genuine dread, you know it's time for a change.

***

The house is dark but I don't turn on the light. The familiar halls prove no obstacle. A soft warm glow peeks beneath the back room's door. The hinges sigh as I creep inside. It's strange how such a boisterous child can ware such an angel's face in sleep. I brush aside a wisp of hair and gently touch my lips to his brow.

'Sleep well little one.'

Clare is standing at the door when I turn. Through the net of shadows I can see her tired smile.

'I love you,' she whispers, kissing my cheek before returning to bed.

The room is dark enough that it doesn't matter if my eyes are open or not. I stare at the ceiling through closed lids, waiting for sleep to come.

***

'What have I told you about leaving the kitchen in a mess?' The Ogre waves her arm at the unwashed coffee cups in the sink. 'And the filing is supposed to be done before you go home.'

'I knew I was back this morning.' I push past her into the sanctuary of the male locker room.

Last night, I had a premonition today was going to be bad. So far nothing has happened to change my mind. Quick shifts are a drain at the best of times but with a forty five minute drive home and back... That leaves only five and a half hours to squeeze in some sleep before you are back on the job.

Rap Rap RAP! 'We've got a job.'

I splash water on my face. Technically, we don't even start for another fifteen minutes. Why am I always right? This is definitely going to be a bad day.

The ambulance pulls into the driveway just ahead of the patrol car. I curse my luck. With a dead'n this early in the shift and no way known-to-man to prise the Ogre's note book from her pocket, it looks like I'm in for a busy day.

As soon as I walk through the door I know. This is no ordinary deceased.

The mother is crooning to her baby, eyes red rimmed and as lifeless as the child.

Why is it always the children? I ask myself. I look hopefully at the Ogre but she stands as emotionless as ever. I fumble with my pocket and take out my note book, trying to swallow down the lump in my throat.

It is hard to offer comfort to someone when you are facing your own worst nightmare. I have never been overly religious but each night since my baby was born, I offer up the same simple prayer.

'I do not ask for much.

Just see my baby safe tonight.'

As the ambulance officer moves to take the child, I touch her hair and her mother's hand.

'I am truly sorry. If there is anything I can do ...' What more can you say?

She howls animal-like, all wild eyes, leaning away and pulling the baby tight against her chest, sobbing kisses onto the tiny cold face. 'My baby... my baby... Don't take my baby...'

The Ogre taps her watch.

I talk softly, touching her hand, sharing some of the pain. 'I'll take care of her.' I pry her fingers loose. 'I promise'

Her arms fall away and she sinks back into the chair like she is deflating.

If they're already dead, the ambos usually hit the road with a smug, 'Sorry guys, job for the contractors.' I am surprised when they take the baby from me and gently wrap her against the cold and carry her out to the ambulance.

I sit in the car, hand trembling on the steering wheel. 'Sergeant? Can you do the PM tomorrow?'

'It's your job.'

'I would really prefer someone else to do it.' I am pleading now.

'You are doing it, and that is the end of the matter.'

***

'Come to bed Tony,' Clare whispers from the door.

'I'll be in soon.'

'You said that hours ago.' She watches me stare into the cot but returns to her bed when I make no reply.

The rocking chair presses hard into my back but my head nods forward in a half doze. I snap awake, straining to hear my Jamie's quiet breathing, one hand seeking the comforting warmth of his body.

I wake stiff and cramped, trying to rub the twinge from my neck. The slight rise and fall of Jamie's chest makes me smile. The electric jug rumbles in the kitchen and I can hear Clare humming quietly as she waits for the water to boil. I push myself out of the rocking chair and shuffle into the hall.

Clare frowns as I walk into the kitchen. 'You should have come to bed. Your eyes look haunted.'

Sleep wasn't going to change that.

Clare loves my eyes; she tells me they are my most striking feature, clear grey-blue, bright like diamonds. Diamond eyes, she would say. I can see it hurts her to see my fear.

***

The room basks in fluorescent brightness. White tile walls reflect chrome and shining steel. The bench and slab table are buffed to a mirror shine. Rows of refrigerated lockers line the wall through the double plastic doors. The smell of formalin is heady, almost nauseating but it can't mask the stench of the dead.

Ted Greige, the orderly, is balding and stooped, more suited to a torture chamber than this sterile antiseptic room. Although it is very clichéd, he is known to the police as Eigor. That he enjoys his work is plain. There is always an eager glint in Eigor's eye. After a slurp of coffee and a bite from a sandwich slathered in red jam, he smiles.

'Slept in,' he apologises tossing his breakfast on the bench.

The refrigerator door opens with a hiss and he carries the plastic wrapped bundle to the table. Eigor unzips the over sized body bag and places the child on the table. She looks so small and pale, like a porcelain christening doll. Her blue tinged lips are curled in a pout of sleep.

But it's not sleep.

After another slurp of coffee, Eigor lays out the tools of his trade. They gleam bright like the room.

The Government Medical Officer sweeps through the plastic doors, absently leafing through his paperwork.

'Occurrence pad ... P.79A Coroner's report ... identification statement ... All seems in order.' He looks up. 'Ah, Constable ...' he asks brightly, noticing me for the first time. 'Is this...' He rifles through the papers again. '...Catherine Norris?'

I look at the child and draw a deep breath. I touch her icy hair again. 'Yes.'

'Ok Ted, let's get started.' The GMO looks long at the child then moves to a large whiteboard and begins to write.

External and General Appearances: Female child of stated age. Very cyanosed lips, fingernails, soles of feet, and palms. Post mortem lividity fixed to back, upper half of abdominal wall and anterior chest wall. Head circumference ...

Doctor Stanton wields his tape measure like a builder, cold and business like.

Eigor moves to the child. His scalpel traces a thin red line from the hollow of her throat to her pubic bone.

The wet tearing sound pulls strings in my stomach, but I'm frozen. I can't even look away. I feel the colour draining from my face and grip the bench for support.

'Doc, you hear about that footy player?'

'Which one?'

'The one up for rape.' With clean, deft strokes, Eigor flays back her skin to expose the ribs.

'Must have missed that one.'

'Yeah, apparently she was all for it till he stuck it up her backwards.' He works with a professional, grisly ease. 'Split her open. That's when she cried rape.' Eigor picks up a small set of bone cutters, still too large for the work they have to do.

Snap goes the first rib.

I squeeze shut moist eyes. This is not the child, only the cloak she wore, I whisper to myself.

Snap. Snap. It's not the child.

Snap.

But all I see is the child. Like my Jamie.

Snap.

Small and helpless.

Snap.

I promised to look after her.

At that moment I realise I could kill them both, Eigor and the doctor, but I know if I let go of the bench my legs won't hold me. Still, I can't keep my eyes shut, can't look away, and that frightens me most of all.

Eigor pries out the rib cage and sets it aside to reveal the child's inner most secrets.

Heart: No congenital abnormality. Heart valves and muscle normal.

Aorta and branches: Normal.

Lungs and air passages: No foreign body in air passages. No fractured ribs. Lungs cyanosed. Otherwise normal ...

As the doctor sorts and dissects the tiny organs, Eigor turns his attention to her head, slicing the scalpel around her hair line. My eyes are drawn to the baby's face, the only part that is still the child. I clench my jaw against a nausea that threatens to choke me. As I stare, it is no longer the face of Catherine Norris. It's my boy, my Jamie.

When Eigor peels the baby's face back to expose the skull, I stagger from the room. It's all I can take. I shut my eyes to the horror but that death's-head mask is burnt into my brain. Nothing can scour it clean. I clutch the basin, retching as the sound of the bone saw echoes from the other room.

***

When I walk in the rear door, Clare's worry is evident. She is holding Jamie. I walk towards them but I stop. I have to look away. I can't face my own son without seeing that raw, death's-head mask. If Clare thought my eyes were haunted this morning, what does she see now?

They feel empty. Cold.

### Treasures - Rebecca Wilson

'Where d'ya hide the suitcases?' Her back is rubbing gently on the gritty clay and bits of rock are falling with the movement. His jeans are down and her legs are wrapped around his hips. 'I told you already,' he says into her neck, 'you don't need to know.' A loud thud bangs the ground above their heads. Twice. Three times. They look up to the edge of the steep creek bed, above the exposed tree roots and pieces of corrugated iron that hold the bank together. Roo. Just a roo. They pull away from each other. A large canvas bag sits at the foot of an old peach tree that has grown in the middle of the creek bed. She picks the bag up and throws it over her shoulder and it hits her side softly. 'Did you put the key back?' They both scramble to the top of the bank but he moves quickly, so she can't see his face.

'Did you put the bloody key back?' She wants him to turn around and look at her.

'I couldn't remember exactly where it was s'posed to go.'

'What?' He stops and turns to look at her, both of them angry with each other, for different reasons. He puts his face down to hers. Her voice is quivering and her face is red as she asks him slowly, 'So, exactly where did you put it, Jonno?'

'Shit! Jenna, we don't have time for this now. The job's done and we need to meet that guy in half an hour. Where's the goddamn 'cruiser? And give me the keys.'

She pulls the keys from the back pocket of her jeans. Her brown crusty hands slam the keys into his as she cuts him with daggers from her eyes. 'It's up near the old sale yards, like you friggin' told me.'

Silence. They walk separately, angrily, up the red road. Dust is picking up in the wind at the back of his heels and it blows back towards her as she storms behind him. He starts the car. The sun's reflection off the clay is alive with pink and purple that radiates indigo mist, they squint their eyes and lower their visors. He swings the 4WD around, stopping suddenly for the Eastern Greys that are heading to the empty grassy space that sits in the middle of the old mining town. They pass the pub and head out on the only road that takes anyone in or out.

He thinks carefully about where he put the key. 'They won't be onto me until at least next Tuesday anyway. Tom and Gail said they were definitely outta town 'til next Tuesday. And they won't go up to the cottage for a while, not 'til the next boofhead artist comes in anyway. They will notice the missing paintings though, it's just a matter of time.'

He looks sideways at Jenna and continues to think. 'We meet the guy, get the suitcases and make the deal. After that we're free. We'll be outta town before anyone notices a thing.' He lights a cigarette with one hand while the other holds the vehicle to the left as the sharp corner swoops and a sea of yellow and black arrows points the way around the tight bend at the top of the crest. And what about Tony? He'd better keep his end of the deal and keep his mouth shut.

'So, how did it go?' Jenna is calmer now, but not relaxed by any means. 'Did you get the bloody paintings or not?'

'Yes. They're in the suitcases.'

'Did anyone see you?'

'Would I be here driving the friggin' car if they had? For God's sake Jenna. I got the key, I got the paintings, they're in the suitcases and we're nearly at Sofala, so relax.'

They swing to the left in a hurry and he accelerates up the hill that looks down on the small village. He swerves off the road and behind the trees a red Mercedes waits with a pale, thin man at the wheel. Jonno walks over to the passenger seat and jumps in. They talk for a while and Jonno comes back to Jenna and whispers, 'You've gotta get in the car with him.'

'What?''

'Get in the car with him, now.'

'What the hell is going on Jonno?'

'Jenna, just get in the car so I can go get the suitcases.'

'No. I'm coming with you.' The man in the car beeps the horn.

'Jenna, what you don't know can't hurt you. Get in his car. And don't tell him a bloody thing.'

She walks over and thumps herself into the leather seat. They nod at each other.

Jonno drives quickly back onto the road and continues until he reaches a dirt track. He follows it until he has to stop to move the branches and rocks that he'd used to deter any visitors. He makes his way through the scrub, dodging trees in his Landcruiser until he reaches a small cleared area. Out of the car, he walks behind large rocks at the base of a hill, to an old mine shaft where he shuffles down the ladder. At the bottom, he uses his torch to recover the stashed suitcases. He pulls them up to the surface one by one, sweating. He chucks them in the back of the vehicle, under a blanket.

Jenna is leaning on the Mercedes, smoking a cigarette as Jonno pulls in swiftly, streaming light across her face from the high beams. Jenna walks over to him, her heart is racing. Jonno simply tells her to get into the driver's seat and keep the car running.

Jonno shows the man the contents of the suitcases and waits for the money. The driver indicates over his shoulder, where a small box sits on the back seat. 'Put the paintings there and take the box.' Jonno grabs the lid off and counts the cash. 'You do realise what scandal will eventuate when they discover these have disappeared, don't you?'

'What are you talking about?'

'These paintings are very well known, young man. They are considered national treasures, my friend. There will be a lot of heat on this, so lay low and don't do anything 'unusual', or they'll be onto you. I am offloading these this afternoon and washing my hands of the whole thing, you never saw me ... okay? Stick to the deal.'

Jonno tips the cash into the canvas bag and throws it behind him. He swings the suitcases onto the seat. The driver watches Jonno in the mirror, his hands on the steering wheel, poised to exit, fast. Jonno doesn't close the back door. The driver turns his head away from the mirror to see for himself what this man is up to. Before he can speak, silver cuffs have encircled his wrists and he is locked to the wheel. The pale man struggles and yells. 'What the hell do you think you are doing? What's wrong with you, boy? The deal is done! You want to keep those paintings and try to sell them again to someone else? You are a fool. Someone will find me here and I will tell the police every detail I know about you, you little cretin.'

'Don't worry grandpa, I just need to buy a little time. My mate will be along shortly to unlock you. Just don't over react and everything will be fine.' Jonno turns the radio on for the driver and closes the door, walking to his car with the money and the paintings. 'Drive woman, drive!'

***

Back in the old mining town, Tom and Gail have arrived early. Gail gets the dog some food while Tom talks to the guy from Sydney. She hasn't met him before. 'Why was Tom so insistent that he invite this horrid man, "Roland"? We weren't supposed to come back here until next Tuesday. And that bloody BMW that he adores!''

'Something to drink, gentlemen?' She pours them both a beer and says she needs to unpack and freshen up.

The men stay at the table.

'So what do you think you can get for them?' Tom asks.

'The problem is being able to get rid of them. They are very well known, much harder to offload.'

'If that's the case why the hell did I bring you here?'

'Now, now, Tom. I didn't say impossible, just a more limited market, my dear. And besides, I need to see them before anything can happen. You know how it works.'

'Let's go there now.'

'Gail!' he calls out, 'we'll be back in a while, I'm taking Roland to the cottage.' No reply.

At the cottage, Tom picks up the rock near the concrete path. Not there. 'Strange.' He picks up the next rock. 'There.' Relief. 'Jenna must have moved the key.'

The men make their way to the front door of the cottage with walls that whisper stories of art history. Through the old kitchen and small hallway, into the lounge. 'Holy shit, I don't believe it!' He runs from room to room, looking at the empty walls.

'My dear Tom, someone has beaten you to it!' Roland laughs arrogantly. 'I suppose I shall just have to enjoy your hospitality for the evening and then be on my way,' he says as Tom falls into the closest seat.

'This is disastrous!'

'I'll make my way back to tell your wife. Best that I'm not here when the police arrive.'

***

Gail sits on the couch in the cottage, holding her husband's hand while the constable asks a lot of questions. 'Who has access to the cottage?' The policeman tries to sound like he knows what he is doing.

Tom wonders to himself. Jenna? 'Jenna knows where the key is, she cleans here every time an artist has finished their residency. But she's so sweet. Couldn't be her. She wouldn't know how to sell them anyway? No ... What was the name of that artist who stayed here last June, Gail? That man, the sculptor. You know the one that was screwing all those young wannabes?'

'Oh... Jeffrey?! Don't be ridiculous, Tom! I think your jealousy is twisting your mind! Darling, who else knew where the key was?' Gail asks her husband.

'Really it's down to Jenna and any of the artists that have stayed here. But Jenna? I doubt it.'

'Let's get her on the phone, get her over here, in case she saw anything suspicious.'

'No answer.' Gail sighs. 'Try the pub, she might be up there.' She dials and chats, hangs up. 'No, Cara hasn't seen her since yesterday morning.'

'Where the hell is she then? Try her mother's,' he snaps at his wife.

Again she makes a call. 'Rosie hasn't seen her tonight. Tom, that's not good. That's very unusual for her. I'm a bit worried now.'

***

Jenna drives flat out down the hill again. 'Pull over. I'm gonna drive.' Jonno gets in and heads the vehicle back to the small town from which they came.

'What the hell are you doing?'

'Okay Jenna, here's the plan. We can drop these paintings back. No one will know they were ever taken and we can piss off and have a good life for a while. Start somewhere new. If we head back now, we haven't really done anything wrong. Kind of ...'

Jenna sits silently. 'You've stuffed it all up. It's not what we planned, Jonno. We planned to sell them and skip. That guy will track us down or give us up to the cops and we'll be screwed.'

'Jenna, if we go back now, put the paintings back up, no one will know. Tom and Gail won't be back yet. We can take this cash, it's heaps of money and we can disappear. What's that guy gonna say to the police? "Sir, they took the money I was using to buy stolen paintings?"' Jenna sighs and silently nods her head.

***

The young constable of the town is quite excited by the case. 'Things like this just don't happen 'round here. This is a big case. This could be promotion material.' The policeman bids goodnight to Tom and Gail. He gets in his car and drives out of town but slowly heads off the road and lowers his lights. He can see Tom and Gail's place from where he is placed. He will wait and watch.

The ambitious policeman sees the couple make their way up the drive and head into the house. 'Who is the third person at the table through the window?' He calls in the vehicle plates. 'Dodgy. Roland Fischer. Never convicted but well known for "handling" things people need to "get rid of". Surely that is too obvious, to call me in before he has even left with the goods. Possible, but so risky.' The constable decides to stake the house out for the night. 'These snobs from Sydney won't take the Mickey out of me. A bust like this could be very good for my career, very good.'

***

The town is covered in a blanket of black, there is no moon. At the cottage, in the dark, Jenna can't find the key.' It's bloody gone Jonno, where the hell did you put it?'

'Under that bloody rock is where I put it... shit! We'll have to break in.' Standing in the darkness he holds his jacket over the window and cracks it with a shifter. The glass makes high pitched clinks and he puts his hand through the window to open the lock. He jumps through the window and asks Jenna to pass the suitcases. 'Shit! I don't remember where any of these go, do you?'

'God, Jonno, you and your bloody ideas! Let me in, you'll have to turn the lights on so we can figure this mess out.'

'No Jenna, someone will notice.'

'Jonno, how the hell am I gonna put them back up in the dark?'

'Ok, but just a lamp!' They light a small lamp in the corner of the room and unpack the 'treasures'.

***

The constable outside Tom and Gail's is snoring in the driver's seat. Tom creeps slowly around to the back of the vehicle and puts nails into the tyres. Well and truly drunk by now, Tom is outraged that the policeman has been watching him. 'Son... bitch. Treat me .... criminal, bastard... teach him ...'

After committing his deed of revenge, Tom walks alone, stumbling over rocks and bumping into fences, lost in the dark, towards the cottage. Sobbing to himself, grieving over the money he intended to make, to get him out if the trouble he's in. Bouncing through the back fence, he thinks he sees a light. And now a shadow, two shadows, moving in the cottage.

'What the hell is this?' He shuffles drunkenly to the verandah and tries to see through the window, not too close, he's having trouble staying upright. He can't make out who it is but decides that he must act quickly. But do what? Run back to the policeman whose vehicle is now defunct? 'Shit! What have I done?' As he stands in the cold, panicking, he can hear footsteps. He flops down just below the verandah and watches a man come around the corner to the window. The man has a balaclava over his head and he stands very close to the window, calling out someone's name. Tom's not sure what he said.

From inside the dimly lit cottage Jonno exclaims, 'Shit! Tony! What the hell are you doing here?'

'That goddamn guy you left in the car is dead.'

'What?'

'You heard me, man, dead.'

'How did you find me?'

'Your car is across the road, idiot!'

'Awright, smardarse ...'

'Man, I went to uncuff him just like you asked. You musta gave 'im a heart attack. I'm not dealin' with that on me own.'

'So where is he?'

'In his car, mate, where d'ya reckon?'

'Jesus Christ!'

Tom is terrified. He must get help. He is moving as quickly as he can but he is like a blind kangaroo, knocking into things, grunting and puffing. His head is swirling with alcohol and fear. Back to the sleeping constable he tries to find his way. Tom can't see. His pulse is galloping, he thinks his heart will explode. He trips on rocks and his jacket gets caught on fence wire. He struggles, he's rushing. He pulls himself out of his jacket and it hangs, lonely on the wire, ripped and abandoned. He feels that he has gone off course, he can't get his bearings. He falls over and stays down. Tom is crawling now, so he can feel his way across the gravel, dirt and rocks.

***

Jenna, Jonno and Tony speed away from the cottage. The pictures are up on the walls. 'Maybe not how they were, but close enough.' Jenna thinks. They pull up at the red Mercedes. The two men pull and push the driver into the passenger's seat and Jonno takes the wheel. Jenna follows behind.

Out through the winding roads and along steep cliff edges they weave their way. They pull over at a clearing where the road ahead has a sheer drop that no vehicle could return from. The body is strapped back into the driver's seat, a heavy rock is placed on the accelerator. Jonno turns the key, releasing the brake as fast as he can and jumping away from the vehicle. The three of them watch as the car flies off the edge of the road and plummets through the air. They watch it destroy itself against the rocks until it ignites and booms.

***

The sleeping constable is nowhere to be found as Tom, on hands and knees, feels the earth disappear from underneath him. The missing ground is a shaft. He sails and bounces from edge to edge, too fast to even utter a whimper. The rock floor greets his body and the last air from his lungs is pushed with force and exits from the back of his throat with a grunting gush.

***

Gail is desperately worried about Tom. Lying in their bed, she knows he was drunk when he left but he should've been back by now. Looking out the window she can see part of the police vehicle from behind the trees. 'He is still there, for goodness sake! What on earth does that young upstart think?'

***

Jenna and Jonno drop Tony back to his car. 'Not a bloody word mate, to anyone, or we are all in deep shit.'

Jonno stares into Tony's eyes, Tony looks down, echoing his words, '... deep shit ...'

Jenna is at the wheel. 'Jonno, let's get the hell outta here. C'mon, let's go.'

Jonno hands Tony a big wad of cash, 'Tony, not a word mate.'

He nods. 'Not a word, Jonno. Not a word.'

Rebecca Wilson

### The Portrait - Vickie Walker

I started visiting the elderly at Springvale Lodge. An article in my local paper stated its desperate need for volunteers and as my only child had just started at school I was at a loose end. At thirty I was also beginning to feel that I wanted to contribute to my community in some way.

At first I worked with several other volunteers and we ran craft sessions and played cards with the residents. Most seemed to enjoy our activities and I had a good time also. Most of the residents I came in contact with had physical difficulties moving around but mentally they were as sharp as ever. Each of the residents seemed to have a particular favourite among the volunteers, but I kept my distance. I didn't think it was a good idea to get attached. After all they were old and some were sick. Often we'd come in to find one had died. I didn't need or want the grief of becoming too close to any one there.

Then a new patient named Helen entered Springvale. I met her on my next visit. The nurse had advised me that the woman had dementia, my first encounter with such a condition. Her family had cared for her for a couple of years but it had got to the stage she needed medical care.

I saw Helen every week. Usually she just sat and stared into space; she didn't join our craft groups or play cards. Her communication was limited, usually an occasional vague murmur that made little sense. The nurses had to watch her constantly; she wandered off to the gardens sometimes and couldn't remember how to get back. They fed her because she forgot to eat. Helen didn't appear to notice anything people did for her, a fact which I found disturbing.

Her family came to visit regularly I was told. I never saw them as they came on weekends when I could not come in. She didn't even recognise them according to the nurses. To me, she was a pathetic woman. Being thirty and healthy, I didn't even bother with the fact that she might once have been different. I kept my distance and just involved myself with the practicalities.

One day however she took me to her room. She had never allowed any volunteers in there before, so I felt odd. She handed me a portrait. It was of an elegantly dressed old woman seated in a comfy chair. She wore a tweed skirt, soft white sweater and knitted vest. The face was lined but full of character, the hands gnarled with age. In her eyes was the alertness, the brightness of a much younger person.

I looked at Helen and then at the portrait. It was her—only a few years ago, no more. The faded blue eyes of the dementia sufferer stared into mine. Behind the blankness I sensed her trying to reach back, to tell me something. It was too hard for her and she replaced the portrait on the bedside table.

Over the next week the portrait kept popping into my head. The woman had a past life; I needed to find out more about her. I arranged to visit Helen on the weekend, when I knew family would be there. The nurses introduced me to Anne, Helen's niece.

After chatting for a while in Helen's room, I mentioned the portrait and how Helen had shown it to me. Anne picked it up from the bedside table and sighed softly.

'Aunt Helen had this done a few years ago; she was eighty and wanted it for her birthday. It used to sit in her lounge room until she had to move out.'

'There must be something about it—she tried to tell me, but the fog's too much,' I told Anne.

'She was so alert then, such a wonderful person, full of go. Eighty was the last birthday before dementia set in.'

'It's a beautiful likeness, showed me a side of Helen I didn't even think of, a past.'

'Aunt has a past all right—a life of tragedy and happiness, of great warmth. In the War she was a nurse and worked near the front lines. She saw horrendous things. She married a pilot—the love of her life—he was shot down and killed.' Anne's eyes misted over. 'You'd think that'd knock most people off their feet but she stayed and finished her job. After the War she nursed all over the world, in countries where she felt she was needed most—Africa, India. With the poorest people.'

'You'd never know to look at her now,' I said, patting Helen's hand. She sat on the bed gazing fixedly out the window, appearing to pay no attention to us at all.

'Aunt retired when she was sixty and came home.'

'Did she ever marry again?'

Anne shook her head, 'No, after she lost Peter I think no one ever measured up. She had her nieces and nephews, her sister and brother, friends. And when she came home she took an active interest in her town. Charity work, stacks of volunteer stuff. She was a caring, unselfish person, warm.'

It was difficult to imagine the Aunt Helen Anne had known when all I could see was the vague lost soul of dementia.

'She's only eighty three,' was my comment.

'Yes, she had a terrific eightieth birthday, cake, party, the lot. The portrait was done, probably her only self-indulgence in her whole life. It was my, so wonderful, Aunt Helen. Over the next year her mind slipped. She forgot simple things, didn't eat. It got to the stage she came to live with me. She and I had always been close and I had the time to care for her. But it got worse; she was a danger to herself so we had to arrange for her to come to Springvale. I felt so awful.'

'I'm not sure she understands much of what's around her anyway,' I comforted Anne.

'I don't know,' the reply came rather sadly. 'She doesn't recognise me anymore. Maybe there is something from the past—she did show you the portrait. Maybe she was trying to show you something.'

'Maybe,' I said. I went home that day with some compassion in my heart for Helen.

Over the next months I spent a lot of time with Helen. She didn't change, never spoke much or indicated she knew me. The portrait remained in her room. I often glanced at it to remind myself of the person who used to be.

I began to care for this woman and felt useless to help her. Medical science couldn't lift the fog from her mind—what could I do? I sat with her, talked, rubbed her hands, made her eat and drink. Such small things. She didn't seem happy or sad so I wasn't sure if I was doing anything to comfort her. But I kept visiting.

Anne phoned me one night at home. Helen had died that afternoon in her sleep. In her hands they had found the portrait, clasped to her chest.

I wept. I wept for the woman who, maybe at her last, remembered something of who she had been. I wept for myself, for I had lost a precious gift, a woman who had taught me never to take people at face value.

Vickie Walker

### The Waiting Photograph \- Jill Baggett

The photo hangs in the big old hall

In pride of place on the northern wall

A wedding group from days of yore

Stand resplendent near a door.

The bride is smiling, proudly beaming

The groom looks worried, nerves are telling.

The bridesmaids happy, pretty maids

The groomsmen cheerful, likely knaves.

Dresses flowing, flowers trailing

Morning suits with tails regaling

In the thirties it must be

For clothes like these we never see.

A story strange I now must tell

About the bride who fell unwell

She passed away not long ago

Leaving family full of woe.

But strangest thing her daughter told

A mystery will now unfold

A puzzling thing, a scary tale

The smiling bride is looking pale.

Each day she fades a little more

The others stay same as before

Must she go from us completely

Body, soul and photo neatly?

Her daughter tells me every day

Her image seems to fade away

Whatever can be causing it?

With normal sense it does not fit.

I think it's sad that go she must

But to a place that's good I trust

Will she come back to see us all?

The photo waits upon the wall. m

### Bidding War - Alexandra Nagy

I sit up on the metal bars, my number in my hand.

Watching the lines enter the pens.

Some are silent.

Some demand.

Lines littered with pasts forgotten.

Potential thrown away.

Mindfulness disregarded here in this place that loyalty's frayed.

Sunken spirits haunt the bars.

The cages holding in,

The faded thoughts of humanity.

The goodness from within.

People drift and not a glance,

The frightened and confused;

Hide away in agony,

Until what they think—we prove.

Numbed in preparation for the unsightly of affairs.

Looking back at others.

Shaking with despair.

The naive they curl up to the hungry.

The tormented run walls scared.

The brighter follow all the eyes,

Hoping to be spared.

The innocent stand bunched together,

The first time on these tracks.

And the older walk in silence.

Hoping never to come back.

With one hand in my pocket,

Stroking greens and reds and gold's.

Wishing I could tell them all, something they haven't many times been told.

The ruckus starts, the bidding flows.

The subtlety of nods.

I sit up on the metal bars.

Impossibly playing God.

### Re-Kindled Love - DJ Peters

It was a hectic Christmas and New Year period in the James' house. Mandy, a forty-five year old mother of three, had played host to the family gathering with her husband Barry, a forty-eight year old computer technician at a genealogy research lab in the city.

When the extended family had gone home, only Mandy, Barry and their youngest daughter Anna were left. It was finally time for Anna to pack up and head off to Uni. Anna had received excellent results and was heading down the coast to study Marine Biology.

Mandy drove down to the uni campus with her daughter to find accommodation before 'O-Week'. It was a pleasant three hour drive along the coast.

Anna found suitable accommodation in a large dorm. She had a single room with a bed, a desk and a small fridge. She would have to share cooking facilities, but that was no different to living at home.

The last weeks of the summer holidays were disappearing quickly. Mandy dreaded the thought of her little baby girl going off into the big bad world. Her children were her whole life. She warned Anna about the dangers out there, as she helped her to pack her bags.

Mandy slumped down onto the bed after zipping up Anna's last bag.

'What am I going to do?' she asked rhetorically.

'What do you mean?' Anna enquired of her mother.

'What am I going to do with my time?' Mandy rubbed her forehead as she thought aloud. 'Your father's off at work or out in his shed all the time. The others all have lives of their own! You're leaving now!' She waved her hands in exasperation, 'I'll just be left with the house!' She sounded downtrodden and disappointed.

'Why don't you get a job like you used to have? You said you loved working at the research lab before you had us!'

Mandy thought about it for two seconds before deciding to do it.

Anna left that afternoon. Mandy was in tears, but looking forward to finding a new life for herself. She was proud of her children and all of their accomplishments.

When Mandy told Barry later that night about going back to work he said that there was a lab assistant's job where he worked that she would be perfect for. They could go to work together.

Mandy woke early Monday morning to prepare for the phone call that would change her whole life. Barry had a quick breakfast with her and wished her good luck before giving her a quick peck on the cheek and heading off to the train station down the road to go to work.

Mandy picked up the receiver and placed it to her ear, dialled the number to the genealogy research lab were Barry worked. It rang once before she began to wonder if she was doing the right thing or if she would even get the job.

It rang a second time. Mandy's heart began to beat faster. This is what she had decided to do. It would be a new challenge in her life. She had to do it.

The phone rang a third time. Mandy had just changed her mind and was about to give up, she began to move the receiver from her ear when a woman's voice could be heard.

'GeneTech Genealogy Research Laboratory, Sydney administration. How can I help you?' The woman's voice woke Mandy from her daze and she brought the receiver back to her ear.

'Ah. Hi... umm... my name is Mandy and I was told you have a lab assistant's position available,' Mandy almost choked as her throat was so dry. She couldn't believe how unconfident she felt. It was like her very first job interview. A disaster.

'I'll put you through to Human Resources. Please hold.' Music played as she waited.

Mandy emailed her resume through to the Human Resources Co-ordinator before lunch. It took her most of the morning to type it up as all of her qualifications were more than twenty years old and she hadn't had to have one since she left work all those years ago.

She sat down on the couch to watch the midday movie with a tuna salad sandwich for lunch. Before the movie finished the phone rang. It was the administration women's voice from the lab.

'Hi. Mandy?'

'Speaking.'

'George at Human Resources was wondering if you would be available for an interview this week?' Mandy finished the conversation by saying that she'd be there by four pm.

She hung up the phone and went to her walk-in robe in her bedroom. She looked at herself in the full length mirror. She didn't know what to wear. In the end, after several outfit changes, she was wearing almost the same outfit she started with. Mandy slipped on her shoes and grabbed her purse as she walked out the door.

Barry arrived home that evening to see Mandy sitting on the veranda sipping some wine. There was a second glass waiting.

'Care to join me?' She motioned towards the other glass.

'How'd you go?' Barry asked as he sat down.

'Excellent. I'm celebrating! I start on Monday of next week.'

'That's excellent. Congratulations!' He was very pleased for her.

A week into the job Mandy received a call from the retirement village where her father lived. He had had a stroke and was taken to the hospital. She organised to have a few days off work to visit him.

A nurse led Mandy down the corridor and into the palliative care ward where her father was resting. He turned his head as she entered the room and mumbled her name. She dropped her bags and gave him a big hug.

'Are you alright?' she enquired of her father.

'Not so good dear,' he managed to mumble back. The nurse had informed Mandy that he was resting, but not to expect too much as he had had another stroke since arriving at the hospital. They didn't expect him to last the week out.

Mandy offered to make her father more comfortable as he was unable to move anything on his right side. His speech was getting worse. Mandy was his only child and his wife, Mandy's mother, had passed away a few years before.

'There's somethin' I 'ave ta tell you.' Mandy leaned in closer, as she held his left hand, to hear more clearly. 'Don't want you to get upset, but it's about your mother!' He struggled with every word, almost in tears.

'It's alright Dad. You just rest and get better.'

'I ain't getting' any better!' He tried to yell at her.

'Yes you are Dad,' she tried to reassure herself more than him.

'Doesn't matter anymore. And besides I'm ready to be with your mother again. Just listen to what I've got to say. It's important. We should have told you years ago.'

'Told me what?'

'About your real mother!'

'What are you talking about Dad. Mum's dead!' She scowled.

'I know, but your mother and I couldn't fall pregnant. Your mother's ovaries didn't produce eggs the doctor said.'

'But... What are you saying Dad?'

'Your mother's best friend Amanda donated an egg and you were conceived in a Petri dish. Not much fun for me I'm telling you! Don't get me wrong, the egg was implanted into your mother's womb and she carried you to full term without any complications. And we had you. Our little angel,' he paused to catch his breath. 'Didn't you ever wonder where you got your name from?'

'Well I thought I was just named after Aunty Amanda, like Mum said.' The penny dropped when she realised who her aunty was.

'Amanda and your mother were best friends from high school and when she heard about our problem conceiving she offered her eggs. Your mother was so excited and Amanda always wanted children, but could never find the right man.'

'You're joking aren't you Dad?' She queried.

'I'm afraid not,' he informed her, 'Your Aunty Amanda lived nearby and your mother and her hung out all the time.' He coughed and caught his breath. 'But I'm afraid Amanda disappeared after a falling out with your mother, over an abusive boyfriend. She left with him when you were about five years old and we never heard from her again.'

Mandy just sat there stunned, trying to take it all in. Her father took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a rest.

Later that day Mandy was talking with her father's doctor after he had seen him for a check-up.

'So will he get any better?' Mandy asked the doctor. She needed to know.

'I'm afraid it doesn't look good. We've given him some pethidine and made him as comfortable as we can. He's not responding to any stimuli on his right side and he is losing feeling in his left leg. We've done all we can do for him. It's just a matter of time now. I'm sorry. We'll make him as comfortable as we can,' the doctor consoled her, with a pat on the shoulder that didn't make her feel any better. Her father was dying.

Wiping the tears from her eyes Mandy needed to know how long her father had left. The doctor said, 'He might last the week out or he could just stop breathing and go to sleep at any time.' The doctor tried to sound like he cared, but came off a little blunt.

Mandy stayed with her father, she held his hand and talked to him until his chest stopped moving later that night. She stood up and touched his face, gave him a goodbye kiss and pressed the buzzer for a nurse.

The next morning Mandy organised the funeral details and called her family.

After the grave side service everybody gathered at his local bowling club for drinks and stories. All of Mandy and Barry's children brought their families to celebrate the life of their grandfather, who was half Irish. So that entailed many stories and a lot of drinking to the man's life.

Back at home Mandy told Barry what her father had told her about her 'egg mother'.

'So you don't know her last name. You don't know where she lives. How are you going to find her? That is if you want to find her! Do you?'

'I think I'd like to know more about her. So, yes!' she said as she nodded her head.

'Where do you start?' Barry asked.

Mandy thought about it for a minute before asking for Barry's help.

'All we need to do is use the government DNA database at the lab to search for a female with the first name of "Amanda" that has some genetic similarities to me.'

'So we match up your DNA with the database. That's brilliant!'

'I'll need you to figure out the technical side of it Barry. I'll take a sample from myself first thing Monday morning. Do you think it will work?'

'Of course it will work. As long as we get permission from the lab or we just don't tell them. We could run the comparisons at night after knock-off.'

'Excellent Barry. Thank you very much!' She gave him a big hug and a long kiss, something they hadn't done in a very long time.

They woke up early the next morning, had breakfast together and went up to their room to get ready for work. Barry was in the shower first. Mandy walked in on him and dropped her robe to the floor.

'Mind if I join you?' She said with a smile on her face. Mandy hadn't felt this good about her life in years.

Startled at first, Barry opened the shower door.

'Come on in. Although there's not as much room in here as there was twenty years ago!' Barry replied.

After their long steamy shower together they dressed for work and walked hand in hand to the train station, like a couple of school kids in love for the first time.

'I had a few ideas on how to set up the search to run after hours last night. I'll program it during my lunch break. If you can get your DNA breakdown file to me by five pm we can let it go over night.'

'Wonderful Barry!' She squeezed his hand, 'I can't wait for the results.'

'There's a chance that she's not on the database. Like you she may have never given blood, or had major surgery in a hospital, or been arrested. And even if she has she may not have used her real name,' Barry was an optimist, but always looked at the facts.

'I know, but I'd like to think that my egg mother is an honest person. Who knows she might even live close by.'

'She might live on the other side of the world by now and we only have access to Australian DNA records. Without federal approval and months of paper work, oh, and a very good reason, the search will end with the Australian database.'

'We'll cross that bridge if we get to it. Ok?'

'Ok. Fingers crossed then.'

'I love you Barry!' Mandy was beginning to remember why she fell in love with him in the first place. Barry was a kind, caring and thoughtful person who was dedicated to his family as well as his work.

Mandy ran her sample through the analyser first thing after arriving at work. The process had been simplified in the last couple of years using the latest technology developed by GeneTech's American Research and Development department. Mandy was able to download her DNA breakdown file to her husband's removable USB thumb drive and take it to him to be compared to the database. She got the file to him during her afternoon break at four o'clock.

'Here it is!' She handed the thumb drive over, hopeful that this would work. The desire to find out who she really was, was becoming stronger.

'How did you go?' she asked Barry of his programming.

'All under control. I've set it up to start a half hour after knock-off and it will stop an hour before anyone comes in tomorrow.'

'So we just have to wait till the morning then?' Mandy was excited, but anxious at the same time.

'Not really. I've also programmed it to email the results, if any, to my work account and I'll set up the computer at home to check it automatically.'

'You're brilliant Barry! I love you so much.' She held his cheeks in her hands and gave him a powerful kiss. A colleague walked in and disrupted them.

'I'll see you at knock-off time!' She told him as she headed for his office door.

The remainder of the afternoon dragged on and Mandy couldn't concentrate on her work for checking the clock and daydreaming all the time. Eventually the clock rolled around to five thirty. Mandy had finished everything she felt like doing fifteen minutes ago and was just continually re-tidying her work space. She walked straight back to Barry's office.

'Are we ready?' She asked him, implying the database search and not just being ready to leave work.

'Good to go!' Barry had finished early too and was just waiting for knock-off time and Mandy.

On their way to the train station Mandy suggested they have dinner out at some fancy restaurant. Barry thought that it was a wonderful idea as they hadn't eaten out together, alone, in years. Mandy used her mobile phone to make reservations at a little Chinese restaurant near their home. They both loved to eat Chinese. Their first official date together had been at a Chinese restaurant followed by ten-pin bowling.

During dinner Barry had asked if Mandy felt like going to a movie or out bowling. To which she replied, 'I'm too tired and besides it's a school night,' reminding him that it was still only Monday and they both had to be at work the next day.

Upon arrival at home Mandy went into the kitchen.

'Do you want a cuppa?' she called out to Barry.

'I'd love one. Just need to go to the little boy's room first,' he told her as he walked upstairs.

Mandy finished the drinks and carried them up to their room, placed them on the tall-boy chest and began to undress for a shower.

Barry walked in on his wife lying on their bed, partially covered by the sheet. She seduced him with a curling finger, calling him to her.

They both forgot about their, now cool, drinks of tea on the tall-boy.

Mandy woke early the next morning and prepared some scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast. She carried a tray with some juice and the eggs and toast up to the bedroom where she gently began to wake Barry.

'Morning sleepy head,' she whispered as she shook him, 'time to rise and shine.'

Barry woke and immediately apologised for not checking his email as he had promised. Mandy assured him that it was ok and that it was bound to take a couple of days before they had any luck. They enjoyed breakfast together, then she kissed him. When she let him up for air, Barry grabbed her by the shoulders and took several deep breaths.

'Sorry love!' he said. 'I don't mean to be a spoil sport, but I don't think I can do this again. I'm a bit out of practice, you know!' He indicated his groin area with a nod, 'I think I might have to see a doctor if you keep this up!'

'That's alright. I just missed having you all to myself. And with everything that's happening I kind of feel young and sexy again. Like a young Jane Fonda! How about a long, hot and steamy shower then?'

Before going to work Barry checked his email, there was nothing new. He would have to check that his program was working properly.

After a candle lit dinner on Wednesday night Mandy and Barry sat down on the lounge to watch a movie. The email they had been hoping for arrived. It may have been an error or the first of a possible few matches, but the chances of there being more, were slim.

Barry called Mandy to the computer and opened the message. It was a plain text message, supplying basic information. It listed a name, blood type, Medicare card number and current address and phone number. Mandy read aloud over Barry's shoulder.

'Amanda Anne Watkins. A positive. Medicare card number 2522 54968 6. 34 Acacia Drive, Alice Springs, Northern Territory 0870, Australia. Ph. (08) 8956 7603.' They both made eye contact, stunned.

'I've found her!' She sighed, 'You've found my egg mother for me. Thank you Barry. I love you.' Mandy's eyes began to swell with tears of joy. She rubbed them, 'Are you sure this is her?' she asked Barry.

'I doubt there could be a better match.'

'Amanda Anne Watkins.' She repeated the name again. 'That rings a bell.'

'Well you did know her when you were younger. Maybe your mum or dad used her full name?'

'No. No that's not it,' Mandy thought for a moment, 'Amanda Anne Watkins... A.A. Watkins... I remember now! They had an article on her in The Australian Women's Weekly a few months ago.'

'What? This Amanda? Your Amanda?' Barry questioned her.

Mandy ran down stairs to the coffee table in the lounge room, where she pulled out a pile of magazines, tossing some aside until she found the right one. Amanda was on the front cover, the caption read, 'Brilliant new Australian author A.A. Watkins reveals the secret behind her new best seller "The child I left behind".'

Mandy ran back upstairs with the magazine to show Barry.

'I remember thinking how sad it was that she left her daughter behind. I'm that daughter!' She opened the magazine to the article, laying it on the table on top of the keyboard for both of them to read.

'Her story sounds just like yours. It has to be her,' Barry said after finishing the article. 'What do you want to do now?'

'I guess I call her to see if she'll meet me!' Mandy sat down on the edge of the table, hands by her side. She turned her torso to reach for the phone.

'Are you going to call her now?' Barry asked. She nodded and began to dial the number. 'Alice Springs is half an hour behind us,' Barry reminded her, 'so she should be awake.'

The phone began to ring.

'What am I going to say?' Mandy thought aloud. After the third ring a woman's voice answered.

'Hello.'

'Hi ... umm ... Aunty Amanda?' Mandy stammered and looked at Barry.

'Who is this?' the woman's voice on the other end asked back.

'Sorry, I'm looking for Amanda Watkins, do I have the right number?'

'Who wants to know?' the voice demanded.

'Umm. My name is Mandy James. It used to be Mandy McLean. I'm looking for my aunt.' The sound from the phone was muffled as if the woman on the other end was covering the mouth piece. Mandy could just make out the conversation on the other end.

'AMANDA. There's a woman on the phone asking for you. She says you're her aunt, but you don't have any nieces. Do you?'

'I'll be there in a minute!'

The woman removed her hand from the mouth piece to reply.

'Just a minute. She's coming inside now.'

'Thank you,' was all Mandy could say.

Amanda was indeed Mandy's aunt and 'egg mother'. They talked for nearly twenty minutes about their lives before Barry began to search for flights from Sydney to Alice Springs on Saturday morning with a return on Sunday evening. Mandy agreed and asked Amanda if they could visit her. Barry booked the flights and left Mandy to chat.

When Mandy finished, she caught up with Barry on the lounge watching a Star Trek DVD.

'Thank you. Thank you!' This was the best day of her life. 'Barry let's celebrate!' Mandy grabbed the remote from the lounge pressing pause on the DVD and sat over his legs, like mounting a horse saddle, grabbed his face and kissed him.

After Mandy had fallen asleep, with her head on his lap, Barry was unable to move or close his eyes. He pressed play again on his Star Trek DVD, remembering to turn down the volume, and set the TV sleep timer to turn off after the end of the episode.

The next few days of work were a blur for Mandy and Barry. They were very busy and always thinking about the trip to Alice Springs. Their home life was great, Barry even helped with some cleaning around the house. This only helped to increase Mandy's libido and Barry was enjoying their re-kindled love as well. After they got home on Friday evening and finished packing their bags for the trip, Mandy went out again to get some DVDs and pizza.

Anna came home from uni late on Friday night for a surprise visit with her parents. The lights were all out, so Anna assumed her parents had gone to bed. She opened the front door very quietly and carried her bags across the threshold, closing the door behind her. She spotted some candles still burning on the mantle in the lounge room. As she approached to blow them out she noticed some items of her parents clothing laying on the floor and the TV was on. Her parents were asleep, tangled in a doona on the floor. The title menu of an adult DVD 'Desperate and Dirty Housewives' was rolling on screen. Embarrassed, but excited that her parents were having fun, she crept out of the lounge room blowing out the candles on her way into the kitchen. Anna made herself a snack and snuck up stairs to her old room to go to sleep.

Mandy stirred to a noise in the house, she thought it came from the kitchen. She noticed that the candles were out, but didn't hear any more noise. She spotted one of Anna's bags near the front door, turned to Barry who was still asleep and whispered into his ear.

'We've been busted,' she smiled.

Mandy reached for the remotes, turned the DVD player and TV off, falling back to sleep instantly next to her husband Barry, happy in the arms of the man she loves.

DJ Peters

### The Dancing Suit - JE Doherty

As Robert Benfield removed the lid of the old cardboard box, the card slipped out onto the bed covers.

Deceased Estate of Rupert Maxwell

$50.00

Robert didn't know why he was doing this. He had two left feet. He loathed dancing. As a matter of fact, he hated socialising. Beckett had talked him around again. How did he always manage it?

Robert glanced at the seven faces printed on the sheet of yellowing newspaper. They were all raven haired girls, similarly attractive, but definitely not his type. Blondes? In a pinch. No, Robert's tastes ran more to the classic Irish beauty, flaming red hair and a spattering of freckles. The mental image of Mary Willis made his cheeks burn.

'Perfect,' he said, laying the newspaper aside.

He fingered the suit lapel. Black tails complete with silk shirt—so white it shone blue under the harsh fluorescent lights of the New Haven apartment—a silk bow tie, vest and tastefully chunky cufflinks of onyx and gold. The suit had a slight musty smell and an almost invisible brown stain in the right sleeve of the coat but it fit like it was tailor made. He thought the tie would cause him some problems but to his surprise, as he looked in the mirror, he couldn't find any fault with the bow. Strange...

His confidence soared. At nine o'clock this morning, he was ready to call Beckett and cancel but now, Robert couldn't stop smiling.

He smoothed back his sandy hair at the temples.

'To die for!'

***

Beckett stopped in mid conversation as Robert entered the hall. There was no sign of his usual hesitance; all the clumsiness was gone, replaced by a slow, confident glide. His shoulders were square, no customary slouch, his chin high.

'Well, well,' said Beckett. 'I hope you don't change into a pumpkin at midnight.'

Robert spun about, trailing a toe, sliding into a Fred Astaire pose. 'Not a chance, pal.'

'Where on earth did that come from?'

'I have absolutely no idea.' Robert didn't know if Beckett meant the 'pal' or the dance move. Either way, the answer was the same.

The string quartet took the stage and gave their instruments a final cat-screech tuning. For someone who hated dancing, Robert couldn't wait to get on the dance floor. He strode up to the first vacant girl he could find.

'Would you care to dance?' He asked with charm that surprised even himself.

'Why not.'

The cello sighed a slow bass as they took the floor. The viola and violins joined as Robert's hand slipped around the girl's slightly pudgy waist. They almost skated around the dancefloor; their steps were so smooth, gliding between the other couples like phantoms. Pachabel's 'Canon in D' built toward a crescendo of twirling satin on silk, ending in an extravagant dip with the final fading note. The girl was breathless but Robert touched his lips to her hand and was off to look for his next partner.

'Seriously,' Beckett said, 'Rob's got it for you, bad.'

'He's never even spoken to me,' Mary Willis replied.

'That's because he's shy.'

'Yeah, right!'

They both looked to the dance floor where Robert lorded with yet another partner.

'Around you, at least.'

'He hasn't stopped.' Mary sighed.

'Well, he's usually shy. I don't know what has gotten into him tonight. He hates dancing.'

When Robert saw Mary, a flush spread across his cheeks and he almost stumbled as he approached.

'Now, that's the Rob we've come to know and love,' Beckett drawled.

Robert's cheeks reddened even more. He was slipping further into his customary, insecure self. The cast of his eyes dropped and his shoulders began to stoop.

'H... hi.'

Mary's quirky smile brought Robert's head back up. Her teeth were slightly crooked, but that small imperfection only heightened her appeal. Robert couldn't force his mouth to work.

'Told you he was shy,' Beckett laughed, slapping Robert's back.

'Would you like to dance?' Mary finally asked him.

At that, something clicked in Robert. He bowed with a flourish of hands.

'It would be my pleasure, Mary.'

'I thought you didn't like to dance?' Beckett joked.

'It's the suit,' Robert replied. 'I can't seem to stop.'

He took Mary's arm with confidence.

There are green eyes, and there are green eyes. Most were misty, more grey than green. Clarity was the best word Robert could find to describe Mary's eyes. They were sharp, gem-bright and clear. Robert was lost and he had never been happier. They danced and the music played on.

Robert caught a flash of dark hair for the corner of his eye. Mary was talking but he couldn't seem to focus on her words. He turned as the dancers reeled about him, his eyes following the girl with the long black hair and white carnation threaded above her left ear. His arm slid away from Mary and the tide of dancing swept them apart.

Something was nagging at the edge of his mind, but everything dissolved, the music, the crowd, Mary...

A ball of anger and desire welled up from the pit of Robert's stomach. He cut through the dance floor like a shark. His face was serene, charming but a glint like shattered ice, hard and sharp, edged his eyes.

Mary stood with Beckett. They both looked on in disbelief as Robert and the dark haired girl with the white carnation and satin blue dress left the hall.

The girl was raven haired... similarly attractive... And something inside Robert burned.

***

Mrs Benford was annoyed. She was always telling Robert to turn off his light when he left the room. He didn't pay the bills. She saw the scattering of clothes on the floor and the box and papers strewn over the bed. If it wasn't for her, her son would be living in a pig sty. She scooped up the clothes and began stuffing the papers in the box.

One sheet caught her eye...

Another body found

When will the killer strike again?

Under the pictures of the seven dead girls, the story detailed the atrocities they were subjected to before they died.

Mrs Benford shivered as she closed the lid on the box.

JE Doherty

### The Eyes Have It - Paul Phillips

Strangers weren't new to the area—at least Bobby Hammett didn't think so. He had worked for the Sheriff's office for over ten years (since he had finished school) and had seen all sorts come through town. Peddlers, hawkers, gypsies—yes sir, Bobby had seen just about every type of itinerant traveller and lonesome wanderer known to man; there was that tall dude who blew through town last year that Bobby still hadn't been able to label—he was a strange one all right—fancy suit, but no tie or shoes. If you had tipped the guy upside-down you could have used his long, stringy hair as a mop. And the stench—Bobby figured that rolling around on the mounds of rubbish up in Belmont's dump for a week wouldn't have come close to the odour this guy had given off. Bobby had laughed when his nephew had said that even skunks would have turned tail and run. That was one strange dude.

***

Dust devils danced around the legs of startled horses and the gentle breeze helped push them up the near-deserted dirt strip that the locals called the Main Road. Evan's Bluff was a small town—even by Midwest standards—that comprised a central road that contained half a dozen not-so prosperous shops, a telegraph station, the Sheriff's department and a saloon (which is usually where you found the officers from the Sheriff's department.) A few hundred people called Evan's Bluff home—and many other, not so nice, things—and those families had lived here for generations, most of them unsure of what lay out past the giant cacti and the swirling dust.

Evan's Bluff wasn't exactly a hive of entertainment or action—the most exciting thing to happen in the town in the last five years was the mass evacuation of the saloon when the beer had dried up: old Cooper had plain forgotten to order in the new barrels (so he said) or he had been too drunk to get the telegram off in time (which is what the rest of the townsfolk said). Either way, the regulars hooked up the wagons and took a trip into Waterfall (a most unfortunate name—hadn't seen rain there in over two years) and loaded themselves—and the wagons—up with enough booze to last them another five years.

It was into this town—this town—that two strangers walked and the arrival of two strangers in town was always going to cause a stir of interest in these parts.

***

Those who saw them thought the man and the boy were related (those who saw them come in, anyway—Mrs Riddles claimed that she was the first one to see them but she works for the Sheriff—make of that what you will). No one could really say why—something about their manner; the long effortless strides as they strolled down the sidewalk of High Street side by side—like gunslingers coming into town, revolvers at the ready.

They didn't carry revolvers, of course—people would have noticed. No, they had no weapons of any sort—at least none that were immediately obvious. And obvious they would have been—both of them were wearing only old, torn denim shorts and dusty singlets, once white but now a reddish-brown from the desert sands. Worn leather boots covered their feet with a hint of material poking out the top that at one time might have been socks. The older of the two carried a knapsack over his shoulder—it, too, was coated in dust and was wearing thin in small patches around the bottom. It had obviously done as much travelling as the boots on their feet.

***

Most of the townspeople didn't immediately notice the newcomers; they were either in the saloon or in their own homes when the strangers made their way through the centre of town—it was left to Deputy Sheriff Bobby Hammett to approach them and strike up a conversation. Sheriff Longman had sent him out to do the deed—he himself hadn't seen the talk-of-the-town with his own two eyes but he didn't trust strangers and he reckoned if anyone was going to get killed in town, it was better for it to be a Deputy than himself.

Deputy Hammett stepped out from the shade of the awning of Grant's saloon where he had been enjoying a game of poker with the Newsome brothers (all three of them—they were dumb as horseshit but loaded with silver and cash) and a quiet beer. He crossed over to the Western Land Bank, nodding to Mrs Turner who was trying to appear not in the slightest bit interested (but the pencil and writing pad on her lap said otherwise) and he waited beside old Allan Banville's Savings and Loan.

The Deputy eyed the two as they approached him; the young boy didn't seem to be of concern. However, Bobby instantly felt the hair on the back of his neck stand to attention when he examined the older man—a massive slab of muscle, bone and sinew, skin unblemished as you would normally see on forearms that would have been better served loading lucerne and hay onto the back of wagons, not swinging loosely by the sides of a drifter. A waste of strength and muscle, Deputy Hammett thought to himself (not that he was going to find out for sure just how strong the guy was, nosiree.)

Hammett hitched his britches and tipped his hat back to greet the strangers.

'Howdy, boys—what brings you two fellas to town?' The sun chose that moment to hide itself behind some clouds and a breeze picked up. Deputy Hammett could have sworn he felt the temperature drop in that split second. The clouds cleared, the sun reappeared but Hammett still felt the chill. 'You boys got names?'

Silence momentarily fell upon the street; the usual chit-chat and everyday sounds of a small town faded away, as if even the birds and horses were waiting with baited breath on the answer. (Mrs Turner leaned forward on her old cane chair—any further and she would fall and wouldn't that be embarrassing? Not to mention ill-timed.)

'Yessir, Sheriff, we do have names ...' The man squinted, trying to read the shiny silver badge that sat slightly off-kilter on Hammett's worn-for-the-second-day-in-a-row shirt. 'Sorry, Deputy Sheriff.'

Hammett cringed at the emphasis and didn't like what the stranger was implying.

'My name is Watson, and the boy's name is Parsons. We be looking for a certain somebody, Deputy, and we would sure appreciate it if you just stepped aside and let us pass.'

Hammett could feel the stares of the townspeople on him. He could also feel the weight of expectation (get them out of town, we don't need strangers here, get them out) bearing down on his shoulders. Worse still, he could feel the eyes of the strangers boring into his head, could almost feel the tendrils of something foreign searching through his head; pulling at his thoughts and raiding his memory. He shook his head in an effort to clear his mind—he was partially successful.

'See here, boys, we have a problem. I can't just let you be running loose in town, getting into other people's business, and hurting folk. That just wouldn't do.'

The older man swept his arms in a wide circle. 'Nobody here needs to get hurt but I promise you, Deputy, if you don't get out of my way by the time I get to ten, the only thing you will be stopping is the worms from going hungry.'

For a time, Deputy Hammett looked like one of the Newsome brothers: slack jawed, eyes wide in disbelief. A few moments later, wits collected, he stepped toward the pair, chest out. He wasn't going to be spoken to like that.

'Now, listen here fella, no need for that tone. Was just doing my job.' A horse whinnied behind him. He jumped like he had been stuck with a cattle prod. 'Who is it that you be looking for? Maybe I can help?'

The youth had been silent for the duration but now found his voice; deeper than you would expect from one so young. 'We come for my pappy, Billy Parsons.'

Hammett had almost forgotten the presence of the younger boy—he had been completely aiming his attention at the man before him. He glanced at the boy, who was crouched down, seemingly tormenting the ants that were criss-crossing the dirt road. The boy—Parsons, the man had said—had the brim of his hat pulled down over his face as he played. He slowly raised his head, tilted back his hat and his eyes searched and settled on the Deputy's. Hammett felt ice crawl up his spine as the boy's face came fully into view. Beneath the dirt, dust and grime that caked the young Parson boy's face, Hammett could see the ridges of an ugly red scar, just under his left eye and only recently healed. His breath hitched at the sight of it—and then he felt like his chest would explode when he saw the black cavity that was his eye socket, sans eye.

***

Hammett choked back his revulsion (and obvious questions). 'Son, you are a tad too late. We hung that bastard up good and proper three weeks ago, come Wednesday. He's deader than a dead thing.'

The two newcomers remained unmoved. The older man spat phlegm at the feet of the Deputy.

'He ain't dead—at least not how you think he is.'

The Deputy started laughing, he couldn't help it. He was holding his sides for fear they would split and all that beer he had spent good money on would leak out the gaps.

'What are you talking about? I saw him—swinging from a branch like the pendulum in that big clock down at the carriage station that Mr. Burns keeps polished real good—he says that ...'

'Enough.' The man's voiced boomed from his lips, shaking the ground (and Deputy Hammett). 'We have had enough of this game. Either you move, or we move you ourselves.'

The Deputy shook his head and laughed once more—albeit a quiet chuckle this time. 'I keep telling you—he is dead. We hung him. I even kicked his carcass into the hole up at the cemetery.'

The younger boy leaned in real close to the Deputy—close enough for Hammett to catch the scent of something horrible on his breath. 'You don't understand, mister—you can't kill what is already dead.'

***

Mrs Turner watched the Deputy closely; his hand strayed to his gun holster a few times and she was sure as shit that he was gonna pull that shiny pistol and blow someone's head off right there in the street. She wouldn't say it out loud—there are appearances to be kept, after all—but Mrs Turner knew that if Deputy Hammett pulled that pistol, there would be a damn good reason for it and she, for one, would applaud him for it.

***

'What exactly does that mean—already dead?' Hammett looked from the Parsons boy up to Watson, who stood with his arms folded across his chest. 'What in the hell is the boy talking about? That's crazy talk, right there.'

Watson gestured for Hammett to sit down, right there in the middle of the road. The Deputy took a few looks around to make sure he wasn't in any danger of being trampled by horses or be the victim of some other unfortunate accident while his ass was gathering dirt. When all seemed fine and dandy (as fine and dandy as sitting in the middle of a dirt road can be), he made himself comfortable.

'Now, Deputy, there are a few things that I am going to tell you that may sound as loony as a bat flyin' ass-up and shitting on its own head, but they are true. Show me the proper respect—as a man of the badge—and let me finish my tale before you start peppering me with questions. Does that sound fair to you?'

Hammett shifted his backside on the hard road. He had sat down directly in a wheel rut from the carriages that passed through bringing dry goods from Breakers Point off to the north. When he was sure he was comfortable again, he nodded for Watson to continue.

'Alright, this could take a some time ...'

***

Sheriff Longman couldn't believe what he was seeing—his Deputy was sitting, cross-legged, in the middle of the road. I don't remember that in law enforcement classes, Longman thought. Just wait until you are finished out there, Deputy—you and your lunchtime drinking—you are going to be finished alright.

***

'If I am going to tell you this story, I best be beginning at the start—seems like as good a place as any to go from.' A crooked grin spread across the old man's face. 'It ain't a pretty story, it ain't no lullaby. Sure hope you don't have a squeamish stomach, Deputy.'

Hammett smiled thinly. 'I'll be okay—I have seen plenty in my time, mister. Just tell the story.'

'As you wish ...'

***

The three of them sat in a rough semi-circle; Watson in the middle with his hands placed in his lap, seemingly undisturbed by the fact that at any minute, they could all be trampled and killed; the boy Parsons was still laying in the dirt, chasing ants with his chipped and bloody fingernails; and Deputy Hammett sitting bolt upright, hands by his sides—a study in concentration and attentiveness.

'To begin,' Watson started, 'we have to trace back old Billy Parsons to the night that young boy there was conceived.' Watson reached into his knapsack and removed a small container that Hammett suspected was water, but wouldn't be surprised if it was something just a little stronger. 'Old Billy was a drunkard—no doubts on that score. When he worked over at the slaughterhouse in Jackson County, they had to terminate his employment due to the fact that he either didn't get his fat lazy ass out of bed in time or he was a mean bastard at work when he needed a drink. Reports were that he once took a guy out back and beat the living daylights out of him and stuck one of those big hooks through his shoulder blades just because he was talking about having a beer. The man was a bastard, that's for damn sure.'

Hammett started to speak but Watson held up his hand. 'You said you would let me tell the tale. Be a good fellow and just keep your questions to the end.'

The Deputy nodded and gestured for him to continue.

'One night, Billy rolled in the front door, absolutely off his trolley. He had finished work early and got straight into the ales, went home and, well, no really nice way to say it so I will just tell you the truth—he raped his wife and gave her a good old fashioned beating while he was at it. From the stories I hear, Mrs Parsons stumbled into Doc Carpenter's in a rough state; her face was a bloody mess, her clothes were ripped and covered in her own blood and she had a limp that she never got over before she died... it's all part of the story. Just wait.'

A strong breeze picked up and blew down the road and all three of them covered their noses and mouths until the wind died down again. Hammett noticed for the first time some large black thunderheads off in the distance. They had appeared suddenly and seemed to be moving fast. Watson cleared his throat to get the Deputy's attention again before continuing.

'Anyway, a few men got together and chased the bastard out of town when he did that. They threatened to kill him—and from what I understand, it was no idle threat. One of the men was Billy's brother-in-law and he didn't like what had happened to his sister—didn't like it one little bit and he swore that if he ever got his hands on Billy that he couldn't promise that he wouldn't do something stupid.'

The younger Parsons looked up at the mention of his uncle and a distant smile flashed across his lips before he put his head back down and continued his torture tactics on Evan's Bluff's insect population.

'No one heard from him again—sure, there were rumours from distant towns of similar occurrences throughout Jackson County but he never showed his face again in town—until a few months ago,' he pointed at the boy, 'until he did that.'

Watson stopped talking and the echo of his final words hung between them like a foul odour. Hammett stole a look over his shoulder to look at the Parsons kid to find him staring straight back at him (as well as he could with no eyes). The Deputy closed his eyes and took a few breaths before looking back to Watson again.

'Billy found out about the kid somehow and came back to town to look for him and his mother. Reports vary on just how drunk he was but there was no doubting his intentions. He killed three men in the saloon who had overheard his plans and tried to intervene—stabbed 'em right through their bellies, numerous times if the stories are to be believed. Then marched right on up to the house, kicked the door clean off of its hinges and charged into the house like a wounded bull. He found her in the kitchen—she was putting some water on to boil for her evening tea—and he just sliced her from ear to ear. No talk, no bullshit—just killed her where she stood.'

'What about the boy? What happened to him?' The Deputy couldn't help himself—he was so caught up in the story that he couldn't keep quiet. Watson smiled at him—it was a warm smile but contained traces of agony, like the story was being told for the first time and Watson was watching it play out all over again. Hammett figured that this wasn't the first time that the old man was reliving the events but he could see just how much it pained him in the telling.

'I was getting to that, Deputy.' Watson leaned over and put his hand around the boy's shoulder—it was a tender touch and the boy flinched at first, and then leaned in towards the makeshift embrace.

'Billy had flipped out—his brain was floating around his head and he wasn't thinking right. He kicked open the rest of the doors in the house and found the boy huddled under the bed, sobbing silently and chest heaving as he struggled with fear of his father and his fear of dying. Billy grabbed the boy's arm and dragged him across the room. I saw what you did, the boy said. Billy pulled the knife from the waistband of his pants. You will never have that problem again, boy, was the reply.'

***

The silence inside the Sheriff's office was broken by the rear door slamming; the wind had grown quite strong over the last—well, Sheriff Longman didn't know how long it had been. He had been watching Hammett sitting out there in the dirt; the occasional hand gesture being the only clue that his Deputy was in fact still breathing, so still was he sitting. Once, Hammett had looked over his shoulder towards the Sheriff's office (a few small children were playing just under the window and the sounds of their laughter may have caught the Deputy's attention) and Longman had tried to get his attention but to no avail—the Deputy had turned back just as quickly. Alright, this has gone on quite long enough, the Sheriff concluded. Time to get out there and put an end to this ridiculous scene (what would the people be saying about the Deputy in the morning?). A quick glance up to the heavens gave Longman even more reason to hurry—the clouds were a-gathering and, if he were any judge, them looked like tornado clouds if ever he had seen one. Time indeed to clear the street and make sure that everyone was home, safe and sound. This could get ugly.

***

A mixture of fear and pity flooded Hammett's face as understanding took hold. The boy's own father had disfigured his son, leaving him to the fate of the Gods. He look at the young boy, felt bile rise once more in his throat, burning and bubbling on the way up—just like that volcano he had read about in the newspaper the other morning—scared a lot of people and did a shitload of damage. He felt that this was gonna be just a carbon copy of that.

A hand fell on his shoulder and made him skitter forwards. He turned his face upwards and felt the wind and dust assault his face, slide down his throat and, for a moment, he thought he was going to choke. His eyes fell upon the Sheriff, looming over him like a statue—a statue that had spent a bit too much time at the feed trough, but a statue nonetheless. The Sheriff's rough hand grabbed the front of Hammett's shirt and hauled him to his feet.

'What in the blue hell do you think you are doing—sitting in the middle of the road, waving your arms around like a scarecrow in a tornado?'

The glaze that had been in Hammett's eyes slowly began to clear and the flicker of recognition filled his whole face.

'Boss, I was listening to the story of those two travellers. Did you know ...'

'What travellers, Bobby?'

Hammett spread his arms to show the Sheriff who he was talking about and stopped in mid-gesture. There was nobody there. Nobody sitting on the road. Nobody, in fact, in the whole damn street. Bobby rubbed his eyes roughly, like a man just waking from sleep and trying to rid his memory of a terrible nightmare. He looked again and saw that nothing had changed. There was not a single person in sight—other than his rather annoyed looking boss who appeared to be ready to throttle Bobby at any moment.

'Bobby, you have been sitting out here, in the dirt, for the last two hours. Normally, I wouldn't have given two craps but seeing as that storm is just about to touch down and wipe out everything that isn't nailed down, I thought it best to come down here and get your ass somewhere safe.'

'But they were there... the boy who had his eye taken out by his father—his very own father—and the man who was looking after him. They were searching for the boy's father. They wanted revenge, but we had hung him, Boss. It was very ...'

The Sheriff had heard enough. 'Deputy, I don't know if you have been drinking too much or smoking a bit of the old wacky-weed but there ain't been no-one there since you sat down.' He shook his head and a faint look of pity stole across the Sheriff's face and was gone as quick as it had appeared. 'Son, why don't you git inside, get your gear and head home and look after your mother before that storm hits. In fact, take the rest of the week off and have a break. You really look like you could use it.'

Before Bobby could reply, the Sheriff nodded once more towards the office and Hammett dusted off the seat of his pants and headed inside.

***

Two small boys were sitting on the porch of the Sheriff's office when Sheriff Longman came out.

'You boys better start heading home before the rain starts.' The boys made no move—like they didn't hear him at all. 'I said you boys better ...' One of the boys lifted his head towards the Deputy slowly. With a growing horror, Longman saw two shadowy cavities... where the boy's eyes had once been... and realised that his Deputy's story had been true all along.

'Hey, mister, you can't kill what is already dead ...'

Paul Phillips

### Public Performance - Jill Baggett

My experience with theatre started when I was three years old and my mother took me to see a film for the first time—Bambi. I still remember my horror at the huge screen throwing colour at me and culminating with Bambi's mother being shot and killed. I still see the blood oozing from her. It was the last image I saw as I spent the rest of the afternoon under the seat. My mother vowed she would never take me to another film, a vow she kept, which I still feel was unreasonable of her.

We lived in a block of flats at Lavender Bay in Sydney. Our upstairs neighbour, Aunty Ethel to me, obviously thought my artistic education was being neglected and she took me to the Christmas pantomime the following year. Miss Four Years Old that I was I sat enthralled with the story of Aladdin and his Magic Lamp until the stage suddenly went black and then was lit brilliantly to reveal Aladdin's wonderful cave being ransacked by the evil robbers, who were intent on capturing the youthful, and, in my mind, all things good, hero and imprisoning him. The ultimate horror was when the genie magically appeared from the lamp, amidst ear splitting crashes, bangs, lightning bolts and, most terrifyingly, blue and green smoke. A huge, half naked man appeared, shouting maniacally, 'Tell me what you wish'. My wish was to leave immediately and, finding Aunty Ethel non-compliant, I started a loud wailing. I later heard her telling my mother she would not take me to another pantomime.

Should I add here I was an only and very protected child?

Inevitably I was sent to school at four and a half. One of my kindergarten classmates was cast as a fairy child in a play 'The Bluebird of Happiness'. My unwilling self was dragged once again into a theatre. I remember my heart beating frantically and butterflies vying for a space in my stomach. But the production this time was beautiful, the music enthralling and I remember how the story line absorbed me.

Other than an occasional nerve wracking visit to a circus with my father, where I always expected to see someone fall from the trapeze, or be eaten by a lion, school plays, boring black and white films, symphony concerts with the occasional light relief of Gilbert and Sullivan, and all judged suitable by the nuns at the boarding school I attended, were the only theatrical experiences I knew in the coming years. I found books a much more enjoyable escape and rarely had one out of my hands and mind.

However, when I was 14 Dad took me to Sydney Stadium to see Buddy Holly, and Paul Anka. A young Australian was to open the show and change my view of theatre forever. Johnny O'Keefe exploded into my life, running down the aisle and leaping onto the stage in one bound. He was dressed in orange velvet with leopard skin trims and I saw how an audience of thousands can be captivated by personality, witty dialogue and backing music. Most importantly that was the moment my female hormones burst into life! I was hooked.

I began my nursing training at the Mater Hospital at Crows Nest in 1960. To attract an audience to their dress rehearsals the Ensemble Theatre at Kirribilli and the Independent at North Sydney sent free tickets to the nurses' home for all their shows. I revelled in these performances, saw dozens of plays and thought of the Theatre as a wondrous, magical place that I could only ever look on as an outsider.

I spent 1965 in Broken Hill, at that time a dusty, man's town, to my mind the end of the world, but it was also the venue for the best play I have ever seen. They had a very active Repertory Society and one of their offerings that year was Ruth Park's 'The Harp In The South'. I went and watched it night after night and decided then I wanted to be a playwright.

When Reg Livermore was at the height of his popularity and entertaining Sydney with his one-man extravaganzas, he had a show at The Riverside Theatre at Parramatta called 'Big Sister'.

By this time I was married and my husband and I were looking forward to travelling to Sydney for a night of entertainment. A couple of days before the big night my friend, Denise from Epping, rang and I told her what we were planning. 'I'll come too,' she sounded excited, 'it doesn't matter if we're not sitting together.'

She rang me back soon after, disappointment evident in her voice. 'It's been booked out for weeks, I can't get a ticket,' she said. 'They're going to ring if there's any cancellations, but said they didn't expect me to have any luck.'

We decided she'd come and have dinner with us in Parramatta anyway. At least we'd have a chance to catch up.

So, we had a pleasant couple of hours with her, then said our goodbyes and walked with her to the bus stop. Her car was out of action and being repaired at the time. We waved the bus off and carried on down to the theatre.

The theatre was indeed packed out. We were excited and filled with expectation of a great show. We fumbled our way to our seats just as the lights began to dim and vampy music filled the room. I was aware the seat next to me was vacant and thought it was nice we weren't the last of the late arrivals. As the stage lights came on someone sat in the empty seat and clasped my hand. Startled I pulled away and turned to give the perpetrator a piece of my mind. Instead I was confronted by Denise's laughing face. 'Can you believe this?' she blurted out.

As it happened the bus had been blocked by the traffic jam outside the theatre. On the spur of the moment Denise had decided to get off and see if there were any last minute cancellations. The ticket seller told her there was one only. 'That's all I want,' she'd said and bought it thanking her lucky stars for such luck.

That piece of luck paled into insignificance though when she'd sat down and realised the one cancellation in a theatre holding 750 patrons happened to be the seat next to me. What were the chances against it happening? What were the chances of the bus being stopped right outside the theatre? What were the chances of my usually level headed friend making such a spur of the moment decision and hopping off the bus between stops?

At interval we told the man on the other side of Denise what had happened. He said his sister had been coming with him but had been called interstate unexpectedly that afternoon, leaving Denise a very lucky ticket.

Twenty years or more later we went to see a dinner show Reg had on at The Clarendon at Katoomba. He was mingling with people in the bar afterwards and I told him the story. He was intrigued and said he was often surprised at the stories people told him about events that had been going on in the audience during his shows. I said it would have to be a good coincidence story to match mine though.

He agreed.

Years passed, life passed, and then in 1993 I decided to do a creative writing course. One of the assignments was playwriting. What could I write a play about, a mere mortal like me? There was a ghost story that fascinated me about an Egyptian mummy, supposedly shipped to America on the Titanic. I'd written a short story about her and was quite pleased with it, so decided to try and turn it into a play.

Once I started I was amazed to find the set, the scenery and music, the lighting, the accents of the characters, the whole production, leapt into my brain and I only had to write down what I saw. This was no doubt a legacy from the Ensemble and Independent Theatre days. I wrote all night and it was daylight when I finished, thrilled with what I had written.

My tutor's assessment was 'a good effort'. I was disappointed he didn't tell me I had written a masterpiece. A month or so later Newswrite Magazine published an ad for a Sydney Theatre company, TheatreSonge. They were looking for short plays to include in 10x10 2002. What the heck I thought and sent in 'Lullaby For a Princess'. Two days later I received the most exciting phone call of my life. Director, Jeremy Johnson, rang to tell me he was including my play in the next seasons' performances.

It didn't end there. I've written five plays, all of which have seen a stage.

Bambi was screened on the Disney Channel earlier this year. I began to watch it but turned it off before Bambi's mother was killed. Whoever decided it was suitable viewing for children anyway?

Jill Baggett

### Why? - Cheryl Ianoco

Just when everything seems to be alright,

and life is back on track ...

You think somebody loves you,

and then they take it back ...

That someone has invaded,

that space inside your heart ...

But now the pain is back again,

to tear all that apart ...

You wonder, Why? And doubts flood in,

you need to start to heal ...

Instead the walls are back to stay,

the pain is much too real ...

All you want is honesty,

instead of this deceit ...

Is there no one left who plays it straight,

you are tired of life's defeat ...

You wonder if you'll ever find,

a total love that stays ...

Or go through life, always alone,

to face another day ...

### Drifter's Ridge - Ross Stephenson

It was meant to be the day of rest, but the chestnut Arab gelding cantered along the riverbank on a narrow track that the rider obviously knew very well. He glanced at the sun confident he would not be late.

As the river gurgled to the right the able horseman took the path that veered left up a steep rise and he gently pulled on the reins and slowed his mount. He hoped she would be there when he arrived. His heart started pounding when he had the traumatic thought that she might not be able to make it to their secret rendezvous.

The more he thought of her the more intense became his love and desire.

All his passion was for the present, however he always had a nagging notion and worry of what the situation may be like in six months time, which was the limit of his future thoughts.

Great, she had made it, his mind overflowed with joy and he became transfixed with her flowing fair hair and the narrow waist of his goddess. The sparkling eyes and the smile all came towards as he imagined a personification of heaven to be.

He dismounted trying to act composed and tied the reins to the usual tree branch. She floated towards him and they kissed each other with deep affection until it was time to relax and get their breath back.

'How is my princess?' he asked with a smile on his face as he took her hand and they walked into a shaded position overlooking a section of the valley.

'My father believes I should marry,' she remarked coyly, as she knew this news would not be appreciated by her paramour. He was resolute, with a disappointed expression on his face, as he thought of a rational response.

'You know I want to marry you, but not being of the landed gentry I don't have a chance. This is a problem.' He stared across the valley with a blank expression on his face but his mind was racing like the wheels of a steam train.

'We could elope, but it is not much fun being married to a shearer who spends his life going from shed to shed, and is rarely home,' he stated as he glanced across the valley her father owned. He knew he could not expect her to live on the wage he could earn and almost bowed his head in defeat.

'Father is very excited about the mechanical shearing machines. He said that at Dunlop they had just finished shearing with all the wool taken off with mechanical shears. The first shed in the world,' she remarked to change the subject.

'I've just learnt to use the blades, now I've got to adjust to a new handpiece.'

'It'll be easier won't it?'

'I sure hope so, but that doesn't help our position does it?'

'I'll tell father I want to marry you and all the potential son-in-laws are not wanted.' She smiled and the only man in her life grinned and had to agree it was a good idea but he was unsure of the result.

'He should agree to give us a block of land to help us get started. My God he has enough. That's the answer then.'

David laughed to himself as their future now appeared to have more hope in this society bound by class. Without her brothers he would eventually own the whole lot which appeared an unbelievable idea. That is, if her father would accept him.

After a couple of hours together she leapt into her side saddle and galloped away with her hair flowing in the breeze. Dave walked his horse home knowing the future was becoming more secure. Two or three thousand acres would make his life easier and as he thought about it, it was almost a fait accompli.

It had been an interesting week's work with all his workmates talking about mechanical shearing and how it would affect their lives. Some were optimistic, others thought it a flash in the pan.

On Saturday afternoon he decided to mention his plans for the future with his mother, however the response was not what he had anticipated.

'You cannot marry Cynthia, that is totally out of the question.'

'Why?' queried Dave with surprise as he assumed this rise in his social status would be welcomed by his mother who had had a hard life.

'I thought you were visiting one of the girls in town on your Sunday excursions, not going in the other direction.'

'She is the most beautiful girl in the district, probably in the world for all I know,' skited Dave still not sure of his mother's problem. This working class environment she lived in had not stopped her encouraging him to pursue whatever goals he chose.

'Where do you meet her on your Sunday jaunts?' asked his mother which came as a surprise.

'Up on Drifter's Ridge,' he replied and his mother laughed to herself before becoming more serious.

'I went up there a fair bit about eighteen years ago.' She paused for a moment, 'You and Cynthia share the same father!' she whispered in a subdued manner hoping Dave would not despise her for having told him his father had died in an accident on the goldfields.

Dave slumped in his chair and realised now how he had so much in common with the love of his life.

'My God,' he mumbled and walked out the door.

On Sunday he walked his horse up towards Drifter's Ridge not sure what had happened with Cynthia. She was there but not bubbling with happiness. They walked towards each other.

'Stop!' he screamed, 'Don't move. A snake!' They both stood motionless as the killer slipped towards Cynthia. Dave moved and attracted the snake's attention. It struck his leg.

'Dave, oh Dave, you saved my life!' she cried. 'You're not dying are you?'

'I'm already dead,' he sighed.

Ross Stephenson

### The Little Tear - Ruth Withers

A little tear at play one day began to feel a trembling.

It soon became a roiling, a boiling and a dark'ning;

A sad and heavy fright'ning.

'Fear not,' her mother softly said, 'it is the Host a-calling.

All big tears must gather now, ready for the leaving—

Must head toward the bright'ning.'

With scant goodbye she turned away, 'You cannot come,' a-whisp'ring,

'Your turn will come to follow and you will join the gath'ring

And pass beyond the light'ning.'

The little tear, bewildered, sat and watched her mother leaving—

With many others rushing, to obey the urgent calling.

She felt her fears a-height'ning.

And every day, for many days, returned that awful trembling,

And every day more tears marched past to join the silent gath'ring,—

None smaller tears enlight'ning.

The little tear, with little friends, gathered in the dark'ning,

Confused, afraid and watching; alone and always wond'ring—

What waits beyond the bright'ning?

'Oh, Host,' they cried, 'We're so few now and full of dreadful fearing.

What lies beyond,—and must we all be gathered for the leaving?'

In answer came but tight'ning.

The little tear spoke up at last. 'Well, where's the point in staying?

What's here for us to keep us here? There's nothing but the dark'ning,

The sadness and the fright'ning.

'Tomorrow when the trembling comes, I too shall join the marching.

What lies beyond cannot be worse than this place is becoming.

I'm going to the light'ning.'

'You cannot,' cried her little friends, 'You must await the calling.'

'Who says I must? Who is here for doing any telling?

Who comes to ease our fright'ning?'

The new day came and found the little tears all sadly waiting,

But no big tears came marching by; there came no dreadful trembling—

Yet nearer came the bright'ning.

'I think I understand,' she said, 'Our time, too, is coming.

There isn't any trembling; no big tears left for marching;

Yet still the ever tight'ning.'

Fearfully they waited, all close together clinging.

Nearer to what lay beyond they felt themselves a-drawing—

Ever nearer to the light'ning.

One by one they passed beyond—never murmur making.

One by one, 'til only one—the little tear—was waiting,

Her lonely fears still fighting.

'Little tear, be not afraid. Your journey is beginning.'

She passed beyond and found herself on narrow ledge a-sitting—

Enveloped by a white'ning.

'Brave little tear, you are the last. I've no more tears for shedding.

I beg you, take my message to the place where you are going—

Far, far beyond the bright'ning.'

And so began the journey.

### The Journey - Ruth Withers

The little tear sat all alone upon her narrow ledge.

She heard the message in a sigh and gave her solemn pledge,

Then slowly she began to slide toward she knew not what.

'Stay little tear. You need not go. Linger here with me.

I'll take you in and keep you safe. I host the Host, you see.'

But the little tear continued, saying 'Thank you. I cannot.'

The gentle Breeze came wafting by and cooled her with a kiss.

'My brother the Wind could pick you up and take you far from this.

He'd carry you off to a garden and set you on a flower.'

'No,' said the tear; 'I must go on.' 'Why so?' said the mighty Sun.

'When I could lift you to the sky—to a world of warmth and fun.'

'Please,' cried the tear, 'I must not stop, although you have such power.'

Then down she fell, and down, and down. 'Have a care,' growled a fly,

As she passed close by. 'Leave her be,' said a wandering butterfly;

And the grasses and weeds only nodded their heads and wondered what they had seen.

Into the bosom of Mother Earth she fell without a sound,

Then she gathered herself together again to take a look around.

And the tiny children of Mother Earth asked where she'd lately been.

'Far I've come and far must go, but I'm so small and weak.'

'Our strong friends the rocks will help you find that which you seek.'

And she rode with them on an earthworm to beg the rocks for aid.

'Good rocks, I must not fail my host.' 'Then you will not,' said they.

And she passed with ease from rock to rock, 'til on cool wood she lay,

Too weak to gather herself again, too tired from the journey made.

'I've a message for he within your walls,' she whispered to the wood,

'But I am spent and can't go on. Would you be so good

As to ask of him the question that my host bade me to ask?'

'It will do no good,' replied the wood, 'but I'm prepared to try.'

'Then ask him, please, as I was asked, "Why, why, why?"

Then I can dry in the knowledge that I have carried out my task.'

***

From the wood to the rocks to the tiny children, through Mother Earth to the trees,

It murmured forth and was carried aloft by the Wind and his sister, the Breeze.

It muttered and swirled from the flies to the birds to the bright-winged butterfly.

Storm clouds gathered to hear, but the mighty Sun just took himself away,

And the Host and her host, if they heard at all, had nothing to say that day.

What reply could they give to the muttered reproof—'No reply, no reply, no reply'?

***

Narrator Magazine is an opportunity for writers - amateurs and professionals alike - to exhibit their works. It's free to submit to, affordable to advertise in, and encourages friendly competition with a secret judge and a People's Choice prize.

Find out more about Narrator Magazine at

<http://www.narratormagazine.com.au/>

Published by MoshPit Publishing

<http://www.moshpitpublishing.com.au/>

