The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(51)

“Who’s done this?” she said, turning back.

“I don’t know,” Falk said.

Whitlam gave a low sympathetic whistle as he walked slowly around the car.

“Someone really went to town. What did they use? Knife or screwdriver or something?”

“Yeah, I really don’t know.”

“Bunch of bastards,” Whitlam said. “This place. It’s worse here than in the city sometimes.”

“Are you OK?” Gretchen touched Falk’s elbow.

“Yeah,” Falk said. “Better than the car, at any rate.” He felt a stab of anger. He’d had that car for more than six years. Nothing flashy, but it had never caused him any trouble. It didn’t deserve to be wrecked by some country moron.

WE WILL SKIN YOU

Falk turned to Whitlam. “It’s about something from the past. This girl we were friends with—”

“It’s OK.” Whitlam gave a nod. “I’ve heard the story.”

Gretchen ran a finger over the marks. “Aaron, listen. You need to be careful.”

“I’ll be fine. It’s annoying, but—”

“No. It’s worse than that.”

“Yeah, well. What more are they really going to do? Skin me?”

She paused. “I don’t know. Look at the Hadlers.”

“That’s a bit different.”

“Are you sure? I mean, you don’t really know.”

Falk looked to Whitlam for support, but the principal gave a shrug.

“It’s a pressure cooker round here, mate. Little things become big things faster than you expect. You’d know that, though. It wouldn’t hurt to be a bit careful. Especially with both things coming on the same day.”

Falk stared at him.

“Both things?”

Whitlam shot a glance at Gretchen, who shifted uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you’d have seen them by now.”

“What?”

Whitlam took a square of paper from his back pocket and handed it to him. Falk unfolded it. A hot wind rustled the dead leaves around their feet.

“Who’s seen this?”

Neither of them answered. Falk looked up.

“Well?”

“Everyone. They’re all around town.”




The Fleece was busy, but Falk could hear McMurdo’s Celtic twang rising over the cacophony. He stopped in the doorway behind Whitlam.

“I’m not entering into a debate with you, my friend,” McMurdo was saying from behind the bar. “Look around. This is a pub. This is not a democracy.”

He was clutching a handful of screwed-up fliers in his large fist. They were the same as the one burning a hole in Falk’s pocket, and he had to fight the urge to take it out and look at it again. It was a crude reproduction, probably photocopied five hundred times at the town’s tiny library.

Across the top in bold capitals were the words: RIP ELLIE DEACON, AGE 16. Below was a photo of Falk’s father aged in his early forties. Next to it was a hastily taken snap of Falk himself that appeared to have been shot as he left the pub. He was caught in a sideways glance, his face frozen in a momentary grimace. Underneath the photos in smaller type were the words: These men were questioned about the drowning of Ellie Deacon. More information needed. Protect our town! Keep Kiewarra safe!

Earlier in the parking lot, Gretchen had given him a hug.

“Bunch of absolute dickheads,” she’d whispered in his ear. “But watch yourself, anyway.” She’d scooped up a protesting Lachie and left. Whitlam had ferried Falk toward the pub, waving away his protests.

“They’re like sharks in here, mate,” Whitlam had said. “They’ll pounce at the first sign of blood. Your best move is to sit in there with me and have a cold beer. As is our God-given right as men born under the Southern Cross.”

Both now stopped in the entrance. A large purple-faced man, who Falk remembered had once turned his back on Erik Falk in the street, was arguing across the bar with McMurdo. The man stabbed a finger emphatically at the fliers and said something Falk didn’t catch, and the barman shook his head.

“I don’t know what to suggest, my friend,” McMurdo said. “You want to protest about something, you get yourself a pen and paper and write to your MP. But the place to do it is not in here.” He moved to shove the fliers in the bin, and as he did he caught Falk’s eye across the room. He gave a tiny shake of his head.

“Let’s go,” Falk said to Whitlam and backed away from the entrance. “Thanks anyway, but it’s not a good idea.”

“Think you might be right. Unfortunately. Christ, it’s like Deliverance round here sometimes,” Whitlam said. “What are you going to do?”

“Hole up in my room, I suppose. Go through some papers. Hope it blows over.”

“Stuff that. Come and have a drink at mine.”

“No. Thanks, though. It’s better if I lie low.”

“Nope, that doesn’t sound better at all. Come on. But we’ll take my car, eh?” Whitlam fished out his keys with a grin. “It would do my wife good to meet you. It might help reassure her a bit.” His smile dimmed a fraction, then brightened. “And anyway, I’ve got something to show you.”