Exiles (Aaron Falk #3)(54)

Charlie slammed the desk drawer shut, keys jangling in his palm, and followed them out into the sun. Falk looked back, raising his free hand in farewell to Shane, then gave in for the moment and let Eva lead him down toward the vines. He breathed in the deep, fresh air, soaking in the sense of spring leaves and fledgling fruit all around.

“Was the festival site busy?” Charlie asked as they walked. “I called the station earlier to see how the appeal went, and they said Rob Dwyer was already down there.”

“Yeah.” Falk hesitated. “I ran into him. He said a few new reports came in. Reckons a couple are worth chasing up.”

“Right.” Charlie frowned slightly. “That’s good. Something, at least?” He glanced at his brother for confirmation, and Raco nodded.

“After a whole year, any new information’s good,” Raco said, then turned to Falk. “He mention anything else?”

“About the appeal? No.” Falk met Raco’s eye. Kept his voice neutral. “Sounded like he might have one or two thoughts simmering away, though.”

“Rob? Yeah.” Raco flashed Falk a knowing smile over his daughter’s head. “I’ll bet he does.” They exchanged a silent look of understanding. They’d talk later.

Eva dropped their hands suddenly and ran ahead to the tractor that was parked in the large shed at the far end of the vines. She placed Duffy carefully up on the seat, then climbed in herself, positioning the doll on her lap.

“You know what would be so fun?” she said as though the idea had only just struck her, even as she fixed Falk firmly in her crosshairs. “If you drive us.”

“Me?” Falk laughed. “No, Eva.”

“Oh.” Her face fell. “Why not?”

“For starters, I’ve got some work I need to do.”

“Mum says you’re on holiday.”

“That’s true.”

“So why do you have to do work? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Also true, Eva.” Falk smiled. The kid made a good point. “Still, I think this is something I’d better leave to your dad or uncle.”

“Oh.” She looked immediately devastated. “Okay,” she managed bravely.

“Don’t be dramatic, kiddo.” Charlie grinned and hefted a bag of what smelled like fertilizer clear of the wheels. “It’s different from a car. Not everyone can drive one of these.”

“Although…,” Raco said. He was leaning against the tractor, watching the conversation unfold with amusement. “I’ll bet you a thousand dollars, Eva, that your uncle Aaron can.”

“Really?” Eva and Charlie turned in unison to look at Falk, one in delight and the other in surprise.

Raco laughed. “I’ve seen the exact property where this guy grew up. There’s no way he doesn’t know his way around one of these things. You, hand him the keys.” He pointed at Charlie and then Falk. “And you, leave the work for once. Give the kid a ride.”

Falk looked up at the machine. Raco wasn’t wrong. Falk had learned to drive a tractor before he’d learned to drive a car, and his dad had taught him both. It had been a long time, though, since he’d done this. He stood there in the cool of the shed, with the shafts of sunlight warm across the dusty floor, and all of a sudden, it was twenty-five years ago and he couldn’t wait another minute. Falk stepped forward and climbed up, feeling the long-forgotten but instantly familiar sensation of being in front of the controls. He took the key from Charlie and turned it. The sensation was immediate. He knew how to do this.

“Okay.” Of course. He’d always known how to do this. “Let’s go.”

“Try to avoid the crop, preferably,” Charlie called after them, but he was smiling.

Falk pulled away, out into the bright light, the little girl beside him and the land and the sky huge ahead. Raco and Charlie strolled along behind and, after a while, Rita and Henry came out and joined them, chatting as they wandered slowly through the vines. Falk and Eva sat side by side, and she sang songs and recounted meandering stories as they trundled along, drawing long, lazy laps in the afternoon sun until dinnertime.





18


When Falk ran these days, it was alone on a treadmill, with earphones blocking out his surroundings. The windows of the twenty-four-hour gym nearest his work looked out onto a tall, glassy office block tenanted by an investment banking firm, and Falk used to clock up the kilometers watching a shadowy figure stare at a screen in the building opposite.

The guy seemed to work long hours, even longer than Falk. Or perhaps not, perhaps just a different shift pattern that also kept him at his desk well into the night. Either way, that was where they both found themselves, three to five evenings a week and some weekends. Once, about a month ago, the guy had stood up and stretched, as he tended to do every now and again. This time, though, he’d walked to the window and raised the sunblind that had stopped being useful hours earlier and stood there, a middle-aged man with a late-night cup of coffee in his hand. He and Falk had stared at each other through two panes of glass, ten floors up, the dark sky a sliver above them and the lights of the city streets far below, and then Falk had dialed up the volume on his headphones and the guy had turned away and gone back to his desk. For reasons he couldn’t articulate, Falk didn’t use that treadmill anymore.