END IT WITH A LIE
BY
PETER M. ATKINS
www.enditwithalie.com
END IT WITH A LIE
enditwithalie.com
Author: Peter M. Atkins 2015
Cover art by Leanne Kuulkers Copyright © 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Copyright © 2015 Peter M. Atkins
Paperback books by this author available through - enditwithalie.com.
CHAPTER 1
The summer in eastern outback Australia had been the driest in Simon’s experience. Wide cracks in the topsoil gave it a shattered appearance and offered stark proof of how much water the ground was prepared to accept. An old, hard black ground made up of layers of sediment, brought by swirling and seldom occurring floods over centuries of time and hundreds of kilometres. To where they finally settled, in the slower and sometimes still waters that soaked the flood plains.
The river lay like an avenue. Low leveled, slow and bound between banks studded with River Red Gums that stood with heavy knotted trunks; as if they sought to form a barrier. To protect the lifeblood of the outback from the drought that held the surrounding flood plains firmly in its moisture-sucking grip.
The country around the river portrayed a scene of death.
Tumbleweeds of burnt brown and desiccated yellow grasses crackled underfoot. At times their shattered debris lifted when whirling-winds came to life. The pieces carried and then dumped to the earth again as the varying winds lost momentum.
Simon looked out toward the horizon where heat haze shimmered, and through it saw an old fox moving slowly over the rough ground. Travelling almost lamely towards the cool waters of the river. Its head bowed down as if in silent submission as it carried its bony body in a weary trot. The animal had seen better days and Simon wondered if the wretched survivor would see good seasons again. Knowing, as probably the old fox did that the rains would have to come eventually, if not this day, then maybe the next.
Hope was the knot tied in the end of the tether in this drought ravaged outback.
Simon also knew the old boar was not far away, having seen him briefly less than an hour earlier. The pig had warily drunk from the still waters of the river, before moving back into one of the many dry tributaries away from the oppressing hot sun. The boar, like the fox, also carried itself wearily.
Simon felt coolness on his face as the breeze picked up a little more. It caressed his moist skin as it carried from the direction of the river away to his right. He made a mental note of the advantage it gave him, as it blew his scent away from where he expected the boar to be. Simon lowered his nose towards his armpit and sniffed as he smiled to himself at the thought that scent was probably not the best word.
He had nothing personal against the wild boar; it was just a victim of circumstance. The circumstance being that the grazier who owned the land allowed Simon to live in the old homestead for token rent, and a promise to carry out ‘a bit of pest control’ now and then.
The grazier had two pet hates in his life. One being the wild pigs which ate his lambs while they were being born, and although no less fierce than the first, his second hate was for the crows who pecked the eyes from the ewe, as she lay tired from the exertions of birth.
Simon heard a sound.
A slight scratching sound drifted feebly to him across the wind. Then a muted snuffling grunt that suggested to him he was undoubtedly much closer to the boar than he had realized.
The sweat rolled down Simon’s chin and dripped away to impact on to the thirsty ground below.
He tensed; like he always did when close to these powerful animals and the dagger like sharp tusks they carried in their lower jaws.
His hands were slippery with sweat as the heat of the day sucked at the pores of his skin. He wiped it away onto the material of his trousers before slowly working the rifle bolt, quietly pushing a bullet into its breech.
Simon was crouched at the base, amongst the roots of an old Coolabah tree when the sound came again. He strained his ears to listen, and gained knowledge of the pig’s general direction before he rose in a half crouch.
Stealthily he moved a foot forward, careful that small twigs and dry leaves on the ground made no sound as they crushed to particles under his heavy boots. After some twenty short slow paces he could see the far bank of the tributary. A sloping bank probably three metres lower than the side he approached from.
The advantage of height over the boar suited him.
Simon crouched lower and then easily dropped to his knees as he heard another snuffling sound. He placed his free hand to the ground and lowered himself until he lay stretched out face down on the hot black soil.
With his rifle held in two hands he deliberately and slowly crept forward on his elbows, knees and toes. His belly protected from the sticks and insects that lay in his path by a heavy drill shirt.
A red bull ant walked across his intended path. It was within reach so he sent a curled finger out to meet it, flicking it out of his way as a louder snuffling sound touched his ears, and then his curiosity.
He eased his head up slowly to peer over the edge of the bank, and although his field of view was greatly expanded, it did not include the animal. He decided it must be directly below him. At the base of the high bank on whose edge he lay, and shared with at least one bull ant.
A fly buzzed and then settled.
Simon licked his lips, and his dry tongue rejoiced in the moisture made available by the salty sweat, which had until then clung to his upper lip. He lay in the hot sun, while the heat that had baked the earth prior his arrival radiated up to him and offered only more discomfort.
He was about to move forward a little more when suddenly a movement caught his eye, causing him to still himself in all but his shallow breathing.
Something small moved again. He stared at the object before realizing that it was the fold at the base of the pig’s ear, just visible over the rim of the creek bank. The animal was indeed directly below him, and too close to the lower wall of the steep bank to bring the rifle to bear.
Simon slowly lowered his head until his chin touched the ground, before cautiously moving back from the edge of the bank. He then brought the rifle to an approximate firing position and quietly released the safety catch.
Once more he began to inch forward, stopping only when the rifle’s barrel began to extend over the edge of the bank. With stilled body he slowly raised his head until finally he could see the whole of the pig’s ear.
It was a big animal. Its large ears flapped as it tossed its head to deter the moisture-seeking flies, who sought the living spring which soaked its lightly coloured eyes. Simon could see the bush ticks that clung to the boar’s tough hairy hide, and once again he curtailed his breathing as the old animal lifted its head to concentrate its sense of hearing.
Still as a post it stood, almost as if it were feeling its surroundings.
After a minute Simon saw the animal relax again. It glanced briefly at the bush on the far side of the creek before it flicked its tail and walked a few more steps. Once again it dropped its snout to the soft sandy creek bed. Where with each breath, there shot up a spurt of dust that hung in the air briefly before disappearing on the lifting breeze.
Now that he could see the animal clearly he noticed a severe swelling at its shoulder. A large blackened lump had swollen to the size of a cricket ball, restric
ting the animal’s movement and causing a slight limp. Simon could make out the yellow pus and body fluid that dribbled down the animal’s swollen foreleg. It attracted a horde of flies that settled, swarmed and then settled again to do what came naturally to them. Possibly an old bullet wound Simon thought, before he wondered if he’d ever euthanized a pig before.
The boar was moving again. Slowly and heavily towards the far bank, shoveling a trough in the creek bed as it went in search of the juice laden roots.
Simon lay prone and relaxed in a shooting position. He gauged where he expected the boar to go, and believed he just had to wait until it moved in front of the rifle sights.
Some leaves fell from a Coolabah tree as the boar lifted its head and flapped the big ears again, disturbing the cluster of greedy moisture seeking black flies. The falling leaves caught Simon’s attention, and he became aware of the breeze steadily building in force. It delivered to his sun drenched back a noticeably cooler temperature.
He wanted to turn his head and check the weather, but decided to stay perfectly still. At the pig’s present rate of movement, he would soon be in the rifle sight.
Simon’s sense of fair play whispered to him, and he wondered if he should make a sound to alert the boar. Give it the opportunity to escape. The whisper had barely voiced its comment before he argued that the fair play avenue might lead to the risk of only wounding it again, and ultimately a slower and painful death.
No. It was better this way. A quick shot, dead before it hit the ground and forever free of pain.
He chose a spot to sight on and then waited some seconds as the flies swarmed as if they suspected that an ill wind was about to fall.
Simon inhaled gently, and then let the air slide slowly from his nostrils. As he did the rifle barrel touched the banks crumbling edge and dislodged a small piece of sun-hardened dirt, which rolled down the steep sided earthen wall, taking other smaller pieces with it as it went.
The pig lifted its head and stilled its chewing as it looked over its shoulder. The instant it realized danger was the instant a rifle explosion filled the air. A split second later a puff of dust and a small cloud of flies erupted from its hairy hide.
By the time Simon had ejected the spent shell and pushed another bullet into the rifles breech the boar had fallen on its side. Its wound offering a small red fountain of fresh moisture to the already descending flies.
It gave another high-pitched squeal as its four legs stiffened to full length, before it quivered and then lay still.
The sudden silence, thick after the loud explosion was broken only by the buzzing of the bush flies as they jostled for position in an excited unsettled swarm.
Simon lay still for a moment and gazed thoughtfully at the big animal. He always had the same feeling after he had killed something, and the same thought. One minute you’re standing minding your own business, the next you’ve gone to oblivion.
Simon thought he understood the speed of death, for there had been times when he’d come close to it. Each time there had been no time for prayer, and from that he believed it was practical to live life a minute at a time.
He was still holding that thought when his attention was caught by the falling of more leaves and the now very cool, light wind on his back.
He turned and looked over his shoulder.
Damn he thought. Dust storm.
The sky had turned to a thick ochre red; its blue blotted out by dust from the central Australian deserts from where it had been swept up by cold relentless winds. It had crept up and taken him by surprise, just as he had taken the grunter by surprise.
Typical he thought, lying here minding my own business...
Dust storms like these were less common than twenty years ago, but now and then one would come, and it would be followed by thunder, lightning and hopefully, rain.
Simon looked down to the creek bed and decided that the base of the bank from where he shot the boar would have to do for shelter.
He ejected the bullet from the rifle, caught it, and removed the magazine before reinserting the unused bullet back into the magazine. The bolt pushed home easily along its well-oiled slide, while at the same time he pulled the trigger to release the firing pin and avoid cocking the rifle. He pulled the trigger again to double check before slotting the magazine back into its place. His father had shown him to do it that way, and his father had been right in many other things.
This was no time to be choosey about one’s company he thought, as he jumped down into the tributary not far from where the boar lay. The steepest part of the bank stood protectively between him and the approaching dust storm, and he crouched down against its lower wall. Basic physics told him that most of the wind would blow directly over him. About the wind currents within the creek he knew not what to expect, but he’d soon find out he reckoned, as it would be upon him within minutes.
He was stuck here for now, so he rolled a cigarette and leant back against the wall of black dirt to wait.
It began with a wave of leaf litter. Many small sticks and particles of sand, which blew forcefully over the edge of the embankment immediately dropped into the vacuum below.
Simon spat out dust and dirt, feeling with annoyance the grit between his teeth as he squatted on his haunches with his hat pulled down low on his head. Its large brim offering some protection to the back of his neck as it covered his upturned collar.
He squinted into the maelstrom as dust and pieces of bush debris swarmed about him, before he nestled his nose into the crook of his elbow and clenched his eyes tightly shut.
Seconds later he felt the wind try to pull his old hat from his head, and with humour he wondered about those who wore toupees.
The howl in his ears was the fierce song of extreme power, and he heard what he thought was the sound of a tree or its branches being thrown to the ground with a weird crashing noise.
He heard a similar noise again which seemed a lot closer.
The thrashing wind seemed to go on for more than just the ten minutes as his wristwatch suggested, and he wondered how long it would last. He had, in the past sat through many of these storms, but then he had waited them out in good shelter where he’d felt no need to measure their time span.
All at once the wind dropped to a constant rushing flow, and he knew that soon the thunder and lightning would let loose.
This was the really scary part.
Simon lifted his head slightly and looked out at the trees just ten metres away. Their ghostly shadow outlines stood feint in the thick fog of sand.
He would wait a few more minutes and then start the dash back to the house, and although he wasn’t looking forward to the march, he had to make a move.
The day would soon darken as nearly all the sun’s rays were lost and distorted by the millions of particles of grit, which whistled as they were tossed at random through space.
The first rumble of thunder in the distance told him in its grumbling ungrateful tone that his scamper for cover could not be put off any longer. He had to move now although the dust was still bad. Shouldering the rifle, he climbed out of the tributary to where, upon the banks top he was forced to involuntarily squint as he went against the gritty tide.
He walked as fast as he could while taking care to avoid the large River Red Gums as much as possible. They were well known to drop their heavy termite ridden branches at any time.
With firm step he leant into the wind, allowing his bodyweight to help push through the sandy soup. Suddenly there came a flash, which automatically drew the attention of his eyes as lightning struck down to the horizon. It startled him, and he jumped as every nerve ending triggered.
He loved thunderstorms but they scared him.
Too much chaotic power, especially when he was as exposed as he was now. Amongst trees which could shatter from a lightning bolt at any moment.
More lightning hit and it looked much closer this time. A massive crash of thunder sounded out its cry of fur
y, almost before the momentary glare of the giant spark had completely disappeared. The ground itself seemed to vibrate and Simon once again realized his insignificance in the whole universal scheme of things.
The flashes of lightning came with more regularity now, and as the low light of evening fell they helped guide his feet through the mess of exposed tree roots. They lay like tentacles over the rough and uneven ground between trees that looked eerie in the stark blue light.
He reached the road which ran from the house to the river and turned onto it just as the first cold raindrops fell. Large drops drove into his back and quickly drenched him.
His stride strengthened at the thought of a cold beer and a taste of the wild duck he’d left cooking in the camp oven.
There were no lights on at the house, so he guessed Ray had not stayed around. He would have seen or smelt the approaching storm and returned to town post haste. Ray wasn’t caught out like that; he was too much of a good bushman and in tune with his outback surroundings.
Ray the foxhunter also used the grazier’s old homestead, but as a base for his enterprises. He came from town each day to feed his horses, and at times make up batches of cyanide baits. Baits he used on his regular trips into the bush to kill foxes and feral cats.
Simon had once asked him about the money in fox skins, to which Ray replied, “There isn’t any Simon. Not now. There used to be, twenty odd years ago, when some disease went through the animal population in Europe. They were screaming out for skins then, and the money was good. These days I might tan the odd winter skin, but mainly I just kill them because they’re not native. Although, I suppose that during this drought I’m probably doing some of them a favour.”
Simon understood, and he had on one occasion gone out into the bush with Ray. They had dragged road kill to leave a trail some kilometres long, and along it they’d buried condensed milk coated cyanide baits in shallow holes. Ray had marked each site, so unused baits could be retrieved early the next day.
He liked Ray. An easy bloke to be in the company of, and one who without knowing it always seemed to be teaching. Whether it was bush craft, mechanics or the stars which displayed themselves against the ebony outback sky. A listener to Ray’s quiet voice always came away from a meeting having learnt something.
He was a wiry man, not tall, who wore a uniform of the traditional Australian stockman. Western style shirt, jeans, riding boots and a belt which when coupled the correct way, doubled as a pair of horse hobbles. There was nothing flash about Ray. He was just a down to earth Aussie bushman who knew and loved the bush. His only desire in his late life was to be as close to the bush as often as possible.
Ray loved the bush with a passion similar to the passion Simon had for the sea, but Simon loved the bush too while Ray thought little of the sea.
It worked out.
As Simon stepped up the stairs to the old house his thoughts moved to food, drink and a hot shower. His sodden shirt had warmed due to the rise in his body temperature brought about by his brisk walk. Now as he stood wet under the iron roof of the veranda he welcomed the feeling of rainwater on his skin.
It had been so long in coming that he looked up into the darkness, toward the clouds that undoubtedly hung beyond the falling veil of water and whispered quietly, “Thank you.”
The sound of his footfall, while mostly lost to the rattle of rain on the iron roof, was also muffled by the thick coat of mud, which acted like a second sole on his boots. His muddy track ended at a welded steel frame. It held his boot’s heels while he eased his feet free from the hollows within the sticky mess, before he made his way to the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of beer from the refrigerator.
Simon noticed that Ray had left some mail on the kitchen table. He didn’t bother with the three envelopes. Instead he went bare footed down the kitchen stairs to a corrugated iron lean-to, which offered weather protection to a forty-four gallon drum hot water heater.
Using his hat to protect his hand from the hot fencing wire handle, he lifted the camp oven from the dying embers and carried it inside the house. Placing it by the lounge room fireplace, before he threw paper and wood onto the iron grate, then with a small pour of kerosene he brought a fire to life.
Simon lifted the lid off the camp oven, and his saliva glands responded to the steamy cloud of aroma which arose from the cast iron pot. Pleased with the sight of the roasted wild duck he pinched a small sample of glistening brown skin, along with a portion of the juice-filled meat. Content for the moment with its taste on his tongue, and the thought of what was waiting for him on his return; he replaced the lid and sat the oven by the fire to keep it warm.
He had to walk past the kitchen table to retrieve his beer bottle by the sink and was tempted to check the mail, but decided he would prefer to shower under hot water first.
The three letters, one of which would redirect his current course in life, would have to wait his return.