Exiles (Aaron Falk #3)(24)

“That was a great game,” was all he said now to Shane McAfee as they walked side by side. “A good day.”

“Yeah.” Shane sounded a little wistful himself. “Really was.”

Shane cleared his throat, and Falk wished he knew him well enough to ask what he was thinking. What would all that have been like for him? The pressure and adrenaline on field, and the emotion and energy coming from the stands. Shane would have been barely into his twenties, pretty much the same age as Falk had been, but instead of being one of a hundred thousand faces in the crowd, he’d experienced it all from the heart of the action. One of the sweaty, dirty, victorious chosen few who got the chance to run on that ground.

If Shane was reliving it at all now, he gave no sign, focusing instead on the busy path ahead as he walked. He didn’t really need to, not with his bulk. The crowd tended to part for him.

What had happened to Shane McAfee? Falk tried to remember. He felt he should know, because the guy had been an exceptional player. Injured out, it had to be. Precisely because Shane had been such an exceptional player, and yet after that game, Falk couldn’t recall thinking about him ever again, right up until last year when Raco had pointed him out, working behind the table of Charlie’s vineyard stand.

“You grew up here, then?” Falk said now, easing his way around a noisy family who had stopped dead in the center of the track.

“Yeah, mates with Charlie. Greg, too.” Shane nodded at Raco, who was a pace ahead of them, still on the phone. “I worked in Melbourne for a while after the footy, did a bit of radio commentary, things like that, but—” He shrugged. “Ended up back here. It’s good,” he added quickly.

“You still play at all?”

“Not really. I tried the social stuff for a while, but it’s not the same.”

“No.” Falk pictured the crowd at the MCG. “I bet.”

“Plus it wrecks my knees. Not worth it, end of the day, not for the social stuff. I coach the local men’s team, though.” Shane ran his eye up and down Falk. “You play? Like your dad?”

“No.”

“Used to, though?” Shane continued his appraisal. “Look like you’d have the foot speed.”

“Just at school, a bit at uni,” Falk said. “Nothing serious. And not for ages.”

“Everyone says that.” Shane looked faintly amused. “Never too late.”

“I’m really not sure that’s true,” Falk said, and they both smiled, slowing on the path as Raco paused in front of them.

“Yep, all right. See you there.” Raco hung up and turned to Shane and Falk. “Charlie says they’re over by the left side, near the speakers. This way, I think.”

They fell into loose single file as they picked their way through a sea of picnics toward a large central stage. The music was getting louder, and up ahead a band bathed in spotlights was playing a fast number. Falk saw Shane bend to pick up something from the ground, then straighten again, barely breaking stride. He held a crumpled flyer, a dusty boot print stamped over Kim’s face. Shane ran his large thumb over the dirty mark, then folded the paper carefully into quarters and slipped it into his back pocket.

They found Charlie and Zara by the stage, along with a group of the volunteers Falk recognized from the vineyard stall. Zara was clutching a page of handwritten notes, her eyes moving over the words. Joel stood at her side, his arms folded across his tall teenage frame, reading over her shoulder. Charlie was frowning at his phone, managing to seem oddly alone amid the crowd. Glancing up, he saw them approach and clicked off his screen.

“Hi, mate.” Shane had to raise his voice over the music. “The girls are looking after the stand. I’ll head back soon, I just wanted to—”

“It’s fine.” Charlie waved a hand, then checked his watch. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Time this got started, anyway.”

As if on cue, the band struck their final chord, the note ringing out as the stage lights changed from bright blue to a soft yellow. A sound technician beckoned Zara over to a set of stairs leading up to the stage, where she was joined by Rohan Gillespie and Sergeant Dwyer. All three listened intently as the tech guy demonstrated where to find the on-off switch on the handheld microphone.

You ready? Falk saw rather than heard the man say, and the three of them nodded. Sergeant Dwyer was the only one who looked like he meant it. The technician squinted across the stage, raised his hand, and signaled to someone on the other side. Good to go.

Falk knew before he knew. He felt it even as he turned his head and looked up across the empty expanse of stage to the darkened wings. And he was right. Because there she was.

Gemma Tozer’s hair was cut a little shorter sixteen months on, and the navy winter coat and patterned dress had been swapped for dark jeans and a linen shirt. As he saw her now, Falk allowed himself to admit—completely silently and just to himself—that he’d been half looking for her all night. More than half looking, really. He exhaled.

“All right, mate?” Raco’s voice caught him by surprise. Falk had briefly forgotten he was there.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Nothing. Thought you said something.”

“Oh. No,” Falk said, but Raco wasn’t paying attention, anyway, his focus fully on Zara, who was scanning her speech rapidly now, her brow furrowed.