11.

Dawn.

The dreams were getting worse. Occurring more often. Some of the images were more akin to a memory, while others were peppered with fantasy. They all took place in the heated mood of adolescence Oliver could only conjure in his subconscious.

He crept to the toilet, pissed and washed his hands. Gabe’s door was closed, but he could hear percussive snores coming from the room. Kicking on his boots, Oliver lurched back to his cottage. A vehement breeze was throwing leaves and broken branches along the driveway, dancing together near his feet.

The cottage felt the same as he’d last left it. No one had ransacked it while searching for paintings, drugs or God knows what. Oliver showered fleetingly and dressed, shivering in the cold. Then he brushed away wine from his teeth and lips and considered making a coffee, but in the end decided to grab his keys and jog to his car parked at Gabe’s so he could drive into town.

Once on the road, he gazed across to the hills, flecked with gums and pines, and realised how peaceful the countryside was. How starkly different to the world inside his head.

‘You know you can’t do this to me,’ Rocky said, sounding legitimately concerned when Oliver turned up at the café.

‘What?’

‘Come in this early when it isn’t vintage. I’m going to be off-kilter all day now.’

‘I need a favour,’ Oliver said.

Rocky raised his eyebrows. ‘You mean something more than a cup of joe?’

‘Yeah,’ Oliver said. His phone vibrated in his pocket: Penny. ‘Hold that thought,’ he told Rocky. ‘I’ll be back.’

Walking out of the café onto the street, he answered the call. The town was quiet, people still snoozing alarms. Miners in their Land Cruisers were hooning to work.

‘Hey.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘I just wanted to apologise …’

‘Oli, your texts last night were worrying.’

‘Texts?’

‘As in plural.’

Oliver pulled the phone from his ear, but couldn’t navigate his device well enough to read what he’d written without hanging up on Penny.

He breathed out heavily. ‘Yeah, it’s not good.’

‘Did something happen yesterday?’

‘Someone shot Clare.’

Penny was silent. Then, sharply: ‘What?’

‘As in, shot dead. I’d just driven up to her place. I heard them do it.’

‘Jesus Christ. Where are you now? Why didn’t you call me?’

Oliver couldn’t recall Penny ever sounding so disturbed. ‘I’m back in Mudgee,’ he said, ‘but I’m driving to the Central Coast.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m going to pay Harold Keller a visit.’

There was a pause, then Penny said, ‘Is that a good idea? What did that detective say?’

‘I haven’t spoken to her about it,’ Oliver said. He was going to keep it at that. He knew Penny wouldn’t approve of him withholding information from the police. He just needed time to get Harold to confess, before they linked Clare’s death to him, to Theo, to Orson across the ocean. He’d have it all worked out for Everson. Present it on a platter.

Penny’s voice had a rare frisson of fear about it. ‘Oli, don’t go all crazy vigilante on me. Let the police handle this. They’ll lock him up if he’s guilty.’

‘They’re not doing anything about it,’ he argued.

‘Give them time.’

‘I won’t do anything stupid, I just need to talk to him.’

‘Can you please just leave it?’ she begged. ‘I can’t believe someone killed Clare.’

‘I can’t just leave this. Not when they’re hellbent on trying to pin everything on me.’

‘Oli …’

‘I’m just going to talk to him,’ Oliver said, hand in his jacket pocket. The breeze was picking up. ‘Look, I’ve gotta go, but I’ll call you. Are you staying with your mother tonight?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ Penny said. ‘I might need to come in to work. I’m avoiding Mudgee a little at the moment, though. The whole place is creeping me out.’

‘I know.’

‘Please, just … be careful. We need to talk when you get home.’

Oliver paused, waiting for her to say something more, but she didn’t. ‘Are you breaking up with me?’

He heard her sigh. ‘I don’t think I can do this anymore. I feel like I’m wearing this blindfold. And you know, it’s tight. Pressed hard into my skull. Not knowing when—’

‘Please,’ Oliver cut her off. ‘I need one more chance. We’ll talk when I get home.’

‘Will we?’

‘I’ll tell you everything I should have told you already. That’s a promise.’

‘I don’t know,’ Penny replied. ‘I don’t want to kick you while you’re down, but you need to acknowledge this hasn’t exactly been a walk in the park for me. Running a bar is stressful enough in itself.’

Oliver inhaled, scrunching his eyes closed. ‘I know.’

‘I’ll call you. When I’m in Mudgee.’

‘Pen …’

He nearly said he loved her, but she ended the call before he could form the words.

Rocky already had a coffee waiting on the counter when Oliver walked into the café. There was no one else sitting down, only an ambulance officer lingering for a takeaway. When he’d gone, Oliver stood up and sipped his coffee next to the machine.

‘About that favour,’ Rocky said as Oliver finished his piccolo, nodding for another. ‘Why do I have a feeling it’s going to be something illegal?’

‘Because you’re a smart man.’

‘I don’t deal anymore, mate, if that’s what …’

Oliver bristled. ‘What? No. Not as smart as I thought you were. Um, you’re still part of that pistol club, aren’t you?’

Rocky checked the door, ensuring they were alone. ‘I can’t give you a gun, mate. They’re locked up. If they connect it to me we’re both fucked. Like seriously fucked. Prison time.’

‘I won’t get caught.’

‘Says everyone who’s ever been caught,’ Rocky scoffed.

‘Don’t even load it,’ Oliver reasoned. ‘There’s someone I need to scare. I reckon he’s the one that killed my brother.’

‘Jesus, Oliver. I know you’re a little bit sheltered, enjoy your own company and all that shit, but there’s this government service that’s been around for a while. They call themselves the police force.’

‘Can’t, mate. Long story.’

‘I really wish I could help you.’

Oliver paused. ‘Then help me.’

Rocky closed his eyes, pushed his hands through his hair.

‘I’ll give you a case of the southern block cabernet,’ Oliver added. ‘Two cases. I don’t care. A case every year for the rest of my life.’

Rocky exhaled. ‘You’re lucky I love your wine. I’ve got this little Luger that belonged to my old man. It’s not technically registered …’

‘Perfect,’ Oliver said. ‘I’ll have it back in a day or two.’

Rocky frowned, uncertain. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Where is it?’

Rocky glared at Oliver like he was daft. ‘Yeah, it’s just here behind the juicer. Hold on.’

‘At home?’ Oliver asked, ignoring the sarcasm.

‘Yes, at home. Fuck me,’ Rocky said. ‘When do you need it?’

‘Now. I’m going to Terrigal. Don’t tell the cops that if they come in here searching for me.’

‘Yes, I’ll be sure to tell them I gave my unregistered pistol to a rogue winemaker heading to the coast to intimidate someone.’

‘Can we go and get it now?’ he begged.

‘Alira doesn’t start her shift till seven-thirty. You’ll have to hold your horses, cowboy.’

‘Okay. May as well have some breakfast.’

‘Good idea,’ Rocky said. ‘And no arguing, I’m putting through a full English. You look like shite.’

‘Done.’

‘And, Oliver,’ Rocky said, scribbling something illegibly on a pad. ‘Don’t get yourself killed. I want at least one bloody case of wine for the trouble.’

***

The Luger looked like something straight from the Schutzstaffel. Oliver twitched as he thought of its history. He wondered whether he’d be able to elicit a proper confession without bullets. He didn’t really have a plan, but he wasn’t too concerned; all he cared about was getting Harold to confess. If Oliver appeared sleep-addled and potentially murderous, then all the better for his cause. He wanted nothing more than to scare the shit out of the man. If he didn’t succeed in that, the whole thing would have been in vain.

Oliver sped towards the coast, heart pumping. While he had maintained a decent bill of health most of his life, he felt as though he was close to being sent to the emergency ward. There was pain, a light tug, somewhere in his chest. Maybe the beans and bacon. Or more likely the grief and tension of the past few days. He wondered, driving along, what there was to live for. The wine? Penny? His friendships? Three of the best ones snatched away from him, cruelly and prematurely. Maybe a heart attack would do him—

No. He still had a reason to continue, he didn’t need to convince himself of that. He owed it to his friends, his brother, to find out the truth. He could feel it inside of him, beneath the fear and anxiety. The adrenaline was pushing him further, but his mind was making him work for any kind of clarity.

He passed a police car. He was driving across a bridge on the outskirts of the Blue Mountains. It would be too awkward for the sedan to turn around and follow him, so instead the driver raised a finger in admonishment. Looking down at the dash, he realised he was travelling well in excess of the speed limit. He tapped his foot to the brake, checking the rear-view mirror; the police car didn’t turn around in pursuit. A small speckle of luck.

He stopped at a café in Lawson and ordered a coffee. Stared at his antediluvian flip phone and, perhaps for the first time, wished he had something smarter to do some poking around on. He was feeling nervous, sick, the dreams still lingering. Rushing to the closest public toilet, he hurriedly opened the door and banished his breakfast in three sharp hurls.

Dear Theo,

A few men in the past have offered to buy me a cocktail, but I think you may be the first to extend the offer to the preparation as well as the purchase. What kind of cocktail do you think would suit my soccer-mum palate? I tend to go for a gin martini after a rough day – with an olive – or a negroni if it’s been a better one. I’ve temporarily forgotten what it’s called, but I also enjoy the Italian one with some kind of bitter spirit and prosecco. Refreshing in the summer.

Yes, a bitters collection, albeit arguably eccentric, is far better than dolls or figurines. I dislike superhero franchises and comic books, so the fact that you didn’t mention those is promising.

Today has been a tough day. I’m writing this without a glass of wine or gin by my side. Therefore, yes, that means I’m still pregnant. And yes, I know, the window of time to make a decision is closing in. I can tell you with almost certainty that I won’t be keeping the child. But I don’t want to talk about that today. I’m working quite a high-profile murder case at the moment, one that’s been brewing up in the media for some time. Let’s just say this particular judge isn’t on my side. It’s okay, I wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire. It just makes the job tougher than it should be. It’s fun to be able to vent anonymously, in a letter that no one else will read. No email trail. No fear of my phone being tapped because of shady clients. No proof for a potential disbarment. It’s a pleasant feeling.

A twin? Two identical-looking Theodores scolding legal professionals for their choice of vino?

Tell me more.

Speaking of more, where do you propose we have that drink?

Yours,

Angie