Australian Dreams. Fiona McCallum

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      Claire signed the cheque for six hundred and fifty dollars and handed it over. The man was almost salivating at the thought of such easy money. She knew she should have bargained and got the price down a bit – she really couldn’t afford to be throwing away good money. And Bernie was going to love the irony of her last paycheque being used to buy a horse of the same name. A strange mix of relief and dread swept through Claire.

      The lad with the hay offered her a doubled over piece of twine, and she led the bewildered horse to the holding yard in the corner of the small paddock. She felt ridiculous dressed in a white linen shirt and dressy three-quarter pants, up on tiptoes so as not to ruin her two-hundred-dollar kitten heels, stepping between the piles of horse poo. She’d wanted to look nice for Jack. If only she’d waited until after lunch to get changed.

      The smirk across the face of the bloke with the cheque in his hand suggested he now thought she was one of those totally un-horsey women with too much money, on a crusade because the shops were shut and there was nothing better to do. That horse would end up on her less than one-quarter-acre block for sure – that was if she managed to find someone to transport it at such short notice. He shook his head and wandered off.

      Claire waited in her car until the other horses had disappeared into the shed, and then another couple of minutes. Part of her wanted to make sure the rest of the horses had gone. Another wasn’t really ready to face the contents of the can of worms she was about to open. She savoured the peace before peeling back the lid.

       Chapter Ten

      Speeding along the highway, Claire’s head was awash with all she had to do and the short time she had in which to do it. She had to get to the farm, swap the car for the ute – fingers crossed she could get it started – hook on the float, and get back to the abattoir. All in an hour and a half – that’s when the nice lad finished his shift.

      Her hands were tight on the wheel, knuckles white, palms aching. Her eyes darted across to the clock on the radio every few seconds. The needle was nudging 100, but the trip still seemed to be taking forever. Damn the speed limit, she cursed. There were hardly any cars on the road. She’d probably get away with speeding. But she continued to check the speedo at regular intervals and ease her accelerator foot.

      Two tail-gating Commodores rushed past in a roar of V8 aggression and testosterone.

      ‘Bloody idiots!’ The vehicles were now taking up both lanes ahead of her. Her heart was racing a little. She took a deep breath and sighed, trying to steady the hammering in her eardrums.

      Claire was tempted to pick up her own speed – the cops would be too busy with those two if they were out and about. But deep down she knew it wasn’t worth it; cops weren’t the real problem, death was.

      She shook her head at the splotches of colour already disappearing around a bend a few hundred metres ahead. She really hoped they wouldn’t crash – though they deserved to. Nothing too major; just ding up their precious toys and scare a lesson into them.

      She really didn’t have time to stop. Bernie would be wondering where the hell she was. What would Jack think about her not being at the hospital yet? And the nurses – Jesus, they’d think she was the worst daughter in the world. She really should have rung when they had decided to wait until after lunch.

      Claire didn’t trust the bloke she’d given the cheque to. There’d been no receipt, no paperwork at all to say she now owned the horse. And he’d insisted the cheque be written out to cash. There was probably nothing to stop him selling the horse to someone else who came along. He certainly hadn’t seemed that hung up on morals. If she was late, he’d probably have no qualms about processing the horse anyway. And once Paycheque was gone there’d be no proof, nothing she could do about it. Panic gripped Claire. She had to hurry up.

      A few kilometres on, Claire came around a sweeping bend and noticed a large object on the road up ahead. As she got closer she frowned, easing back her speed and trying to decipher what she was really seeing. She was almost at a stop when she realised what was blocking one side of the road. Two cars – one red, one white – fused into a mass of colour against a large gum tree like a child’s roughly formed lump of plasticine.

      Claire turned the engine off and put her hazard lights on while she tried to figure out where the doors were – where she’d go to attempt to offer some kind of assistance.

      She took a deep breath and walked towards the wreckage on jelly legs. A big part of her already wished she hadn’t stopped, had continued on her way. But you couldn’t, could you? It just wouldn’t be right. She stood close enough to the cars to feel their heat, smell the toxic odour of scorched plastic and paint. The stench of burnt rubber hung in the air. Claire coughed and pulled a tissue from her pocket to protect her nose and mouth. The radiators were hissing. Twisted metal groaned and sighed as it settled into its new form. Crows and galahs squawked and flapped away overhead, oblivious.

      Claire wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t touch anything – it looked too bad for anyone to have made it. She wasn’t sure she could cope with blood and guts and death. Somewhere in the depths of the wreckage she heard the faint electronic tone of a mobile phone. Snapping to attention she raced back to her car. Everything was a blur around her – in slow motion – as she grabbed her own mobile from her handbag. Shit, what was the mobile emergency number? She was about to dial triple zero when she realised there were no bars indicating reception.

      ‘Damn it,’ she cursed. She must be in a dead spot. Maybe if she climbed on top of her car she’d get a signal. Just as she was taking off her shoes, another vehicle came around the bend. She leapt on to the road and started waving her arms, the sharp bitumen cutting into the delicate skin of her bare feet.

      An older style four-wheel drive stopped on the edge of the road behind her car. Claire hoped the middle-aged couple inside were locals.

      ‘There’s been an accident,’ she said through their open window. ‘Do you have a mobile? I can’t get a signal with mine.’

      They both got out of the vehicle.

      ‘Bloody СКАЧАТЬ