Hal cast a sour glance at the cricketers. Blacky was tossing and catching a cricket ball, cracking jokes while two girls giggled through their braces. He felt Jenna tap him on the arm.
‘Why don’t you go and play with the boys, Hal?’
‘I don’t know anyone.’
‘That’s not stopping your brother.’
‘Oh, Evan’ll talk to anyone.’
‘You don’t like cricket?’
Hal shrugged. Nothing bored him more than bloody cricket. Partly because he was hopeless at it. Even with his glasses on he had trouble seeing the ball. When he started at the new school in six weeks there’d be no avoiding Friday sport, but not on his holidays, no thanks. No way would he endure waiting in line with other leftovers for the privilege of being the last kid chosen.
‘Think we might have something in common, you and me. Bloody cricket.’ Jenna flashed him a conspiratorial smile. She’s being kind. Which was more than that bunch of hens was being to her.
Someone yelled lunch, come and get it. Hal excused himself and peeled off to the food tables, losing sight of Jenna in the scramble for sausage rolls and cakes. He took his paper plate into the bushy end of the grounds and found a rusty pearl-sided pocketknife under a red gum. He practised carving his initials in the bark. H.H. didn’t look much on its own. Should he carve a love heart around the letters like teenagers did? It seemed pathetic. He settled for carving a circle around his initials. Halfway around he dropped the knife, and crouched down to get it. When he looked up he caught sight of Jenna walking into the trees forty yards away. She stopped to smile at someone; gave a little wave. Hal’s eyes followed it all the way to a stand of gum trees, where he spotted someone having a quiet smoke. His dad. Hal heard him make a clicking noise with his tongue and thought he saw him wink at Jenna. It was an odd thing to do, but at least he wasn’t ignoring her like everyone else. A moment later someone started tapping a spoon on a beer glass. Dad stepped on his fag-end, winked again and walked back to the marquee.
The crowd quietened and turned towards a greying ginger-haired man adjusting his belt underneath his beer gut. The big chief, Hal thought: Mr Curio. Hal’s dad stepped up beside the chief and Hal was pleased to notice the admiring eyes of the crowd on him. Mr Curio glanced at Mrs Curio, who had a finger to her lips, shushing the chattier ladies.
‘Could we have possibly got a more perfect day to wind up the biggest year Prime Foods has ever had? What a start to the festive season!’ Mr Curio threw his arms wide as if all his Christmases, Easters and long weekends had come at once. After the applause died, Hal saw his dad put down his beer glass and straighten himself up.
Mr Curio took a breath then continued. ‘You’ve all met this smart Alec who our Sydney friends sent here to put a rocket up the hicks from the sticks. Well, it’s official now—John is joining us on a permanent basis!’ He patted Hal’s dad on the shoulder.
Dad humbly accepted the applause of his workmates, none louder than Doug and Kev. Hal clapped even harder. His old man was popular. Amazing.
‘Now the big news!’ Mr Curio’s shout cut off the applause. ‘As of the new year, John will be leading our team into the west. He’ll be out on the road with our sales reps overseeing all they do for the next few months or so.’
More cheers and whistles, and Hal’s dad beamed like a movie star with everyone grinning back at him. Everyone except Mum. Her hand had flown up to cover her mouth.
‘…and I know you’ll give John…and his young family…a big Moorabool welcome,’ Mr Curio concluded with a flourish.
There was an awkward pause which Mrs Curio broke by clapping loudly enough to get the reticent grown-ups going. Most of the kids had turned away, distracted by the approach of a battered blue ute that came rolling along towards them trailing a plume of red dust.
Hal’s dad rushed to respond while he still could.
‘Thanks, Mr Curio. It was my privilege to be with Prime Foods, Sydney for four years; but after six months in Moorabool I’m even prouder to be a part of the Prime West family. Corrie and our boys have only been here two weeks, but already they feel part of this great—’
‘Santa—look! Here he is! SANTA!’ some freckled loudmouth screamed.
In the open tray of the ute stood the skinniest Santa anyone had ever seen: Stew, the Terry-Towelling-Hat Man, swimming in the baggy red suit, waving his cigarette and puffing smoke through his ill-fitting beard.
Hal’s dad decided to quit while he was ahead. ‘Here he is, kids—the man of the hour—Santa Claus!’
The ute ground to a stop, almost tumbling Santa over the tailgate before the sea of kids swamped him. Hal surrendered to the Spirit of Christmas Presents and charged into the clamouring mob.
Goodenough’s shovel struck hard chunks of clay that exploded, showering his shoulders with red dust. A rock ricocheted off his shin. He threw the shovel down, wincing at the raw blisters on his hands. A couple of feet down—that would have to do. He’d walked home in the heat to grab a shovel and pliers, leaving the dogs locked in their compound. It was after two now and too late for a shower.
He tugged the fish hook free with the pliers and stabbed his index finger in the process. He spat on it, wiped it on his handkerchief. A tetanus shot now, on top of everything? Fuck me dead. He dropped the hook and its hank of tracer into a plastic bag, pocketed it, then carried Charlie to the shallow grave and gently lowered him in.
He stared at the drag marks from the drum to the burial site, where the killer had taken Charlie out and covered him with leaves and sticks. Footprints in the loam. There were two sets. Small ones. Kids? Christ, he hoped not. But psychos and sadists came in all sizes.
Crouched by the grave, holding Charlie’s front paw, he noticed something. The middle claw was missing. Blood crusted around the stub. He checked the other paws: all intact. The left front paw was the only one like this. Had Charlie done this to himself while escaping? More likely the claw had been ripped out as part of the killer’s fun and games. A little souvenir.
‘Couldn’t just kill a dog, could you, you sick bastard?’ he roared at the bush, the willows, the grimy yellow caravan on the ridge. Disgusted with the world, Goodenough shovelled dirt over his dog and patted it down with the back of the spade.
‘Goodbye Charlie,’ he said to the mound. ‘You were loved.’
Hal could not have been happier with his new plastic binoculars from Skinny Santa. With everything 2.5 times larger than life, according to the box, he could ‘see every last detail in crystal clarity’. Scanning the picnic area, the trees beyond, in a sweeping circle, he adjusted the focus. Suddenly a brown and beige blur became the back of a man’s head and shoulders. Just a normal looking, average man. Standing in front of the man was Jenna Rickson, all smiles and chatty. The man put something in the palm of her hand.
She opened the little box, put her hand to her mouth; reached back into the box and took something out. Hal couldn’t see what it was, but she put it to her ear. And the other ear. Earrings! She leaned up to the man’s face and kissed him with her eyes closed. Not a goodbye peck like the kind Dad gave Mum. A real kiss, like in the movies. Only this one went on and on. It was the longest kiss he’d ever seen and those two people just didn’t want to come up for air. Suddenly Jenna broke away, dropped the little box down her blouse and scurried off towards the group without looking back.