The Island(30)

They had put ropes around her neck like they were going to hang her. They probably were going to hang her. They were probably going to kill all of them. Eye for an eye—all that stuff from Sunday school.

The ropes were scratchy and it hurt to move. The ropes around Owen’s neck were over his hoodie. He’d been smart to do it that way. They weren’t scratching his neck. He was just sitting there like he was dead. He wasn’t even crying. She was crying. And no one was helping. No one was going to help. Her mom was dead, her dad— “Hello,” a voice said.

A voice right next to her.

Olivia turned, startled. A little face was staring at her through a gap in the planking. A seven-or eight-year-old girl with blond hair and big dark eyes.

“Hello,” Olivia said. “What’s your name?”

“Niamh,” the girl said. “What’s your name?”

“Olivia.”

“Is that your brother?” Niamh asked.

“Yes. He’s called Owen.”

“Hello, Owen,” the little girl said.

Owen said nothing.

“He’s not much of a talker,” Olivia explained.

“You shouldn’t be in there,” Niamh said. “This is for sheep. The sheep use it as a dunny sometimes. It’s not a place to live.”

“A dunny is a bathroom, right?” Olivia asked.

“A dunny is a dunny!” Niamh said, amazed by this question. “Where are you from?”

“We’re from America,” Olivia said.

“I know America. It’s somewhere near Sydney, I think. Me da went to Sydney. Are you sad?”

“Sad? Yes, I suppose so. I want to go home.”

“Are you sad about your dad?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you sad that he’s dead?”

“He’s not dead,” Olivia said, a jolt of terror hitting her.

“He is dead. What do you think happens when you die? The schoolie says we go to heaven and become angels but me da says there’s no such place. Me da says when we die, we don’t do anything.”

“Why do you think my dad is dead?” Olivia asked.

“’Cause Danny chopped him with his knife. Chopped him real solid-like. All the blood and guts come out and then he lies down and he just stays there doing nothing.”

“That’s not true!” Olivia said.

“It is true. They did stuff to your mum.”

“Heather’s not my mom.”

“Lenny’s going to cut your mum’s tongue out. Lenny is going to put his big scissors in her mouth and cut out her tongue so she can’t talk back to Ma no more. Ma didn’t like that.”

“No! None of that happened.”

“It’s true. Ma told them to take your da and Ellen up to the old meat locker. Two dead people together. If you look through the window, you can see them on the big table. Come out and see for yourself,” Niamh said.

“Can you let me out?” Olivia asked.

“What?”

“Can you let me out?”

The girl walked around the front of the shearing shed and then came back. “They put a thingy on the door. What do you call those metal things?”

“A padlock?”

“Yeah.”

“Is there any other way out of here?” Olivia asked.

“I don’t know. There used to be a big hole in the roof where you could see out, but they fixed that.”

“The roof is too high anyway.”

“One of the ewes butted her way out last winter,” Niamh said.

“Where?”

“Do you see where the wall’s a different color?”

“No, it’s too dark in here to see anything.”

“Next to me, where I am. Jacko repaired it. He used driftwood. I don’t think it’s very strong. And it’s not painted or anything. Ivan is a better carp…someone coming,” Niamh said and slipped off into the shadows.

Olivia heard the key turn in the padlock. The door opened. Owen peeked out from his hood.

“All right, you’re coming with me,” a man said. He was a giant of a man with a mustache and jet-black hair. He stank of sweat and alcohol. He squatted in front of Olivia and untied the rope that ran from her throat to the hook above her head. He untied the other rope attaching her to the wall. He pulled her to her feet by the back of her shirt.

“Where are you taking her?” Owen said.

“You shut up, little fella, if you know what’s good for you,” the man said.

He led Olivia outside and locked the shearing-shed door.

“What’s happening?” Olivia asked.

“You’ll see soon enough,” the man said.

He walked her to the farmyard, where a large number of people had gathered. There was a fire burning. Music.

“Wait a minute,” the man said. He fumbled at something tied to his belt. It was a clay bottle. He uncorked it and gave it to Olivia. She took it in her tied hands. It smelled bad.

“What is this?” she asked.

“It’s grog. You’re going to need it.”

“I—I don’t want it.”

“Let me help get it down your throat,” the man said. He opened her mouth by squeezing her face, then tilted the liquor in. She had no choice but to swallow as it burned. Her eyes were watering and her throat was on fire.