Somewhere a tarpaulin flaps in a breeze that doesn’t reach me. I reel it in just as the tears have filled my eyes, I blink them back inside, and take the knife from the boards, where it is still hot and red from the last sheep, and the ewe with the black spots is whipping about underneath Otto, and Kelly has stopped crunching her sheep’s foot and is watching, interested as I transfer the sheep between my legs and pull her head back to expose her throat. I clamp a hand over her black-spotted nose so she can’t make those terrible sounds any more, and in one motion I cut her throat, as deep and hard as I can, I want her to be dead before she knows about it, but she still writhes about under me as blood pours out of her, and as her strength goes, so does mine, but I hold her to me, I press my face into the wool at the back of her head. Kelly is barking again. Otto is silent and watching, and he glances at the knife I’m still holding, his smile gone.
Once Otto has taken off the ribs and shoulders, we dump the carcasses out in the paddock next to the house, and Kelly high-steps it next to us, animated and puppy-like. We don’t throw them far in, and she goes and bites and bites again at what is left. I wish he had taken the heads off. Kelly goes down on her shoulder and rolls on the remains. We have sex almost immediately as we get back in the house and I let him do what he wants with me, which is everything. Afterwards, when he’s gone, I drop to the floor and do push-ups until I see black dots.
In the morning, after my shower, I’m standing over the bathroom sink and my eyes fall on Otto’s eardrops. Without giving myself a chance to think, I take off the lid and pour them down my throat. Otto comes in to find me heaving into the toilet.
‘What’s the matter, pet?’
I feel crook, but I ham it up anyway.
‘I need to go to the hospital.’ Once I’m there I can slip away, or tell someone, a kind-looking nurse, that I have to get away from him, I picture her helping me into her car and driving me to the station, giving me money for a ticket to the coast. Otto feels my forehead as I’m spewing. I will it to be hot.
‘It hurts,’ I say, clutching my stomach. I want to give him the idea of a burst appendix. Otto runs his hand over his face.
‘Look,’ Otto says finally, ‘I’ll go into town and get you something to settle your stomach.’
‘I need to see a doctor.’
‘You’ll be right.’ He goes to leave.
‘I want to see a doctor, I’m really sick,’ I say, making my voice as weak as I can, but Otto has made up his mind, I can see it on his liver-spotted face.
‘I’ll get you some medicine. You’ve just had too much sun again,’ he says in a way that I know to be the final word.
I listen to Otto’s truck drive away without me. I’d imagined myself drinking a Coke and buying some more Holidays, smoking one in a gas station.
I’ve thrown up all the drops, but I keep thinking of the wax inside Otto’s ears; I know it was only the drops I swallowed, but it feels like his wax is coating me on the inside. I go to breathe some fresh air, but Kelly sits silently on the other side of the screen door, watching my movements. I flick her the bird but she is not impressed.
In Otto’s bedroom there’s a picture on the wall of a bunch of purple flowers in a pale yellow vase, but that is the only concession to decoration in the place. It’s from another person, Carole probably. I never come in here, not even to clean — he always comes to me in my room, and the smell of the place is like he keeps a bowl of stew under his bed.
In the wardrobe I find a moth-eaten suit with a yellow stiffness around the armpits, and four dresses that would have belonged to a tiny woman. Below them are three small lady’s shoes: two purple wedges and a single pink stiletto. All three have a deadly point that I can’t imagine getting a single toe into. I stare at the pink shoe on its own. Out the bedroom window I catch movement in the paddock, but it’s probably just a bandicoot or a rat. I hold my breath and watch, but nothing comes out of the tall dry grass.
Up on a shelf above the dresses is a chocolate box with no lid, in it the driver’s licence of Carole McKinney from Carnarvon — it puts her age at forty-two. There are two bracelets made of blue and orange coral and a pink lipstick without its top. Underneath these objects is a large colour photograph of Carole and Otto on their wedding day. Otto is wearing the suit with the armpit stains and has Kelly standing next to him, staring straight into the camera. Otto’s arm is around Carole’s shoulders, so the armpit is visible. Carole wears one of the dresses that hangs in front of me — it’s over the top, purple and with one shoulder bare, the other with a large satin bow on, like Carole is a present that is ready for unwrapping. She holds a small white hairy-looking dog with both hands. Her hair is in a short permed bob and has yellowish highlights all through it, her eyes are barely visible beneath the layers of mascara she wears, and there’s that hot-pink lipstick, just about holding in her astonishing buck teeth. Carole is smiling, trying to keep the teeth in check, and she is presenting one long brown leg for the camera. Otto stands firm on both feet, straight-backed with a look that could bake biscuits. All of this is going on outside Darwin Registry Office. My hands start to sweat when I recognise the earrings Carole is wearing, and I have to put the photograph back in the box so I don’t mark it. I would like to tear it up.
I go into the kitchen and I take out the box under the sink which is filled with rusted can openers and bent spoons. I find a curved boning knife, and go to put the box back under the sink. In the space behind where the box normally lives is a golden syrup tin I’ve never noticed before. I lever up its lid with a spoon and inside is a thick roll of money. I put it and the box back, and then I put the knife down the side of my bed. I lie down on the bed and think about that money, about how far it would go. There’s the sound of Otto’s truck coming up the drive. He brings me a can of Coke and some peppermint syrup.
13
I woke up early and lay a minute in bed trying to put things in the right order. I’d got into bed and lain there listening out for creaks on the stairs. None came and I had listened for the hammering on the wall, but it was quiet too. Something had changed in the house. Even the fox stopped shrieking. I’d slept deeply, not dreaming. When I woke, there were large beads of rain on the window, and the glass boomed now and again in its frame, but the sky was not deep brown any more. I could see the hedgerow at the top of the hill flattened by the wind.
Downstairs Lloyd was asleep on the sofa, an old Bible open on his chest. He’d left the lamp on and when I pressed the button to turn it off he snapped awake.
‘Christ,’ he said, holding his hand up to his face. I picked up the phone and dialled Don’s number. Still no reply. I was late — he might have come and gone already. I turned round and looked at Lloyd and his Bible.
‘You god squad?’ I said. He kept his hand over his eyes a few moments. When he took it away, he looked at me.
‘What?’ he said, then looked down at the Bible. ‘Oh.’
I started to fill the kettle.
‘No — the only book I could find, and I thought I’d give it a go.’ He yawned extravagantly.
‘How was it?’
‘It beat lying awake listening to you.’
I stopped scraping. ‘Listening to what?’
‘Jesus, you were having some kind of horror-film dream. I went up, thought you were being murdered, but the dog wouldn’t let me in. You were shouting away, didn’t wake up when I called out your name.’
‘I have to go and look after the sheep now,’ I said. Then I turned and walked back up the stairs to my room. The bath was filled to the brim with water. I pulled out the plug and watched it start to drain away. I dried my hands on a towel and went downstairs and stood in front of Lloyd.