22.

A sharp heave and there he was: nestled in the damp earth, rain sporadic and finding him in spatters. It was dark and cold and still night-time. Oliver had fallen and passed out. Had been dreaming too, but thankfully the images waned as he woke up. He could feel the nightmare still in his body, along with the understanding that his reality had become one.

His ankle. A new lump, protuberant, an egg, large and throbbing. At the very least, it was a welcome distraction from the cold. He opened his eyes fully and looked up to the sky. There was a strange smell in the air. There were no stars. Just a grey blackness and the grumble of thunder. If he could stand, he might be able to climb and reach up enough to be able to jump …

No, he realised. He’d dug too far. Theo had even commented on the size of the hole, and Oliver had explained you needed it to be deep enough so that once the barrel was buried, you’d be able to maintain a consistent temperature.

He reached for his pockets, knowing the action was redundant. They were empty and his phone was sitting on the kitchen bench, probably out of battery. Once he climbed out, he’d crawl back to the cottage. He was only fifty metres from his front door. When he got to the landline, he’d call the police. Get them out to the property and explain what had transpired. He didn’t trust them – wasn’t sure he trusted anyone – but there had to be someone he could tell. He’d call Angie and detail everything.

Unexpectedly, he started to cry, but he slapped himself back to reality. His throat was parched and he needed to piss. Rolling over, and with a groan, he felt something solid under him. Murray’s shotgun. He tried to pull himself up, but he could barely move.

His father. Miles Jones.

Why did he always come back to him? It was annoying that he was thinking of Miles now. He could blame him for the past, but he couldn’t blame him for this. His mind in overdrive, he looked up and saw him standing on the earth above his grave. Miles peered down, kicking gravel and rocks and dust onto his son. He was older, but he hadn’t changed much physically. Oliver closed his eyes and groaned. When he flicked his gaze back up towards Miles, his father was gone.

He rolled over again, ready to lift himself to the ground. His fingers made contact with something in the mud below. It was hard and cold. He pulled it out and towards him. Although he couldn’t see perfectly, as soon as his fingers grazed the object he knew it was a human hand.

Shit.

Oliver dropped it straight away. Someone was buried at the bottom of the trench. Fuck, not Penny? The body wasn’t there when the police had scaled the place days earlier. He picked up the hand again and examined it as closely as he could bear. The first finger was long, white, the nail painted with crimson polish. Oliver breathed in and tried not to cry.

He checked the shotgun’s barrel for bullets. It was loaded, three shells inside. Snapping the chamber closed, he stared into the cold night. Cocked the weapon. He’d keep two bullets for later; he’d need some leverage for getting Gabe to come clean. If Gabe didn’t want to call the police about the body, he’d know that he was setting him up. That he wanted to find a way to dispose of Oliver so he could inherit the vineyard. Frame him for Clare’s murder.

Oliver waited a moment, and when a few large drops of cold rain slapped his cheek, he held the gun as far away from his face as he could. His temple throbbed and his heart beat like the metronome. Taking a deep breath, ignoring his scratchy throat, he screamed, ‘Gabe!’

And then he pulled the trigger.

***

Luna arrived first, running excitedly in circles. She whined, regarding Oliver, too scared to approach the edge. He held the gun into the air, and soon after he heard the crunch of footsteps.

‘Jesus, Oli. What the hell happened?’

Gabe was flashing a torch into the hole. The light irradiated the dark-brown earth; wet, slimy worms wriggling around the rocks. Oliver’s clothes were covered in dust and dirt and mud.

‘Whoa,’ Gabe said, standing back. ‘What are you doing with a shotgun?’

‘I was hoping you’d tell me,’ Oliver said, his voice raspy.

‘Tell you about what?’

‘The gun.’

Gabe kept the torch in his eyes. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘It’s yours, isn’t it? Or Murray’s. That’s where I found it.’

Gabe pulled the torch away, leaving it at his side. ‘Murray’s gun was taken by the police.’

‘I found this in his old garage.’

Gabe was silent for a moment, then his demeanour shifted. ‘What were you doing in Murray’s garage?’

‘It’s not right, Gabe. I need …’

Before Oliver could finish, he heard Gabe’s footsteps move towards the wine shed. He arrived back a few minutes later and slid a ladder towards Oliver. With the gun still in one hand, Oliver winced in pain and began to pull himself up.

***

‘You need to shower,’ Gabe said. ‘I’m worried you’ll catch pneumonia, stuck down there as you were in the rain.’

Oliver burned his mouth gulping tea. It felt good to be swathed in a blanket. The sun was beginning to rise while a fog rolled across the vineyard.

‘I need to know why,’ he said.

Gabe was growing impatient. Oliver was still holding the gun, ready to point it at Gabe if he came too close. ‘What the fuck are you saying?’ Gabe took off his glasses and tossed them onto the bench.

‘Whoever killed Clare left in the car that’s now parked in Murray’s garage. How do you explain that?’

Gabe stood, cup of tea in his hands, looking out at the sunrise. ‘I don’t know. The family have all rushed to Sydney to be with Murray. It’s probably an old paddock basher, Oliver. I doubt it’s the same car.’

‘I just don’t think Murray could do it without you knowing. You’re not telling me everything.’

Gabe put his tea down on the bench and said seriously, ‘Murray was with me for dinner the night Clare died, Oliver. Then he went into town for a winemakers’ meeting. With witnesses. He wasn’t in Orange. Murray’s an idiot, but he’s not a murderer.’

It might have been true, but that didn’t mean that Murray and Gabe hadn’t organised someone else to kill Clare. Perhaps the same people who had come back and bashed them. Oliver wondered if gambling debts were even the cause. How far into the chasm were they?

He looked at Gabe. Had his best mate and Murray orchestrated everything so it was just him left standing? Oliver had no family, and then when they’d killed him, Gabe would be the logical next step in his will. The only person left in his life.

‘There’s a dead body at the bottom of the trench, Gabe. It’s Clare.’

Gabe immediately turned his head to Oliver. ‘Jesus.’

‘We need to call the police. Right now. It wasn’t me, there’s none of my DNA on the body. Well, I touched the hand. Just to make sure it wasn’t Penny.’

‘We can’t call it in,’ Gabe said, strangely calm, sipping his tea. ‘If we call Everson and tell her there’s a body at the bottom of the hole, you’re being dragged in for murder. And you’ll never get out of jail again.’

‘But I didn’t do it!’

They were both yelling now.

‘Oliver, someone’s setting you up! These thugs associated with Theo. Someone wants to take you down and they’re doing a bloody good job of it. If we call it in, they’ll win and you’ll be locked up!’

But they’d have to get away with it first. Get away with all of the murders, for that matter. They’d already done a good job of convincing Everson that Oliver was the one who’d poisoned Theo and Orson. They’d planted the gun that made it appear like he’d shot Clare. It was a clever plan: have the police think he killed his friends and family because he was unhinged, mentally ill, and then he’d feel guilty; there would be a wave of remorse to wash through him and then he’d commit suicide. Leave a note next to his dead flesh. Would they shoot him or poison him like they had the others? Oliver remembered his phone call with Vicky, the icy tone of her voice: You know that desperation does funny things to people.

Oliver twitched. Stood up.

‘Where are you going?’ Gabe said, taking another sip of his tea.

Oliver looked at his cup on the table and wondered whether it was spiked. ‘I’m sorry, mate,’ he said, and with all of his energy, battered Gabe over the back of the head with the barrel of the shotgun.

***

Oliver needed a cigarette. He felt ill. His heart was flouncing about in his chest, and he had to lean against the wall to steady himself. Hobbling down the hall, he used the gun for support, as a walking stick. When he got to the study, he reached for the cigarettes – they were probably nearly stale. Taking one from the pack, he looked out the window at the sunrise. A small shaft of light was reflected onto his desk, and a stack of books caught his eye. The books Theo had put there the day he’d arrived.

‘By the way, I put a few things out on the desk in the office.’

Among them was a Donna Tartt novel, and a desk diary with loose papers stuffed between its pages and the cover. They were letters, Oliver realised. He slipped them out of the diary and started to read.

Angie,

This latest instalment is being penned from a café in Mudgee. I’m guessing from the friendly service that this is a place Oliver frequents. Although, I’ve been told in town he’s a bit of an oddball. The term ‘recluse’ was used twice. The tobacconist has never heard of him (or his wines), but the barista said he doesn’t come into town often. She said he is more than likely ‘agro-phobic’.

I’m sorry I haven’t returned your text messages. I couldn’t get onto you; I probably tried calling when you were in court. Anyway, I left a message to let you know I’d be writing to you, in the same format you first used to woo me.

Another confession: I haven’t been entirely honest. You’re perhaps the smartest and most perceptive person I’ve ever met, so I’m sure it will come as no surprise, but I’m not only a bartender and courier. I realised over the last few weeks that stealing art, wine – moving drugs – isn’t what I was put on this earth to do. Don’t get me wrong, crime certainly pays. We both understand that, I’m sure. But I’m on the wrong side of the fence, and it’s time to change. Perhaps meeting you has helped me to understand. Helped me to realise that I need to be better; that running away doesn’t always solve everything. Oliver and I have missed over a decade of our lives; the highs, the lows and everything in between. I need to run back to him for a while.

We’d spoken about starting again: me getting out, you taking time off. Doing some proper travel. Getting a kombi and going up and down the coast and drinking and swimming in the ocean and making love in the caves. The dream. Shit we’ve always wanted to do but have been too distracted by work or life or whatever we tell ourselves to help us sleep.

Wish me luck. I’ve got the kombi and I’m about to drive to the vineyard to see Oliver. A note arrived at the bar from our half-brother last week, saying he was going to Mudgee, and it feels like the right time to reunite. It will be the first time I’ve seen Oliver in fifteen years. Four Dogs Missing, he’s called the winery. Two Brothers Estranged would be just as catchy. Thank you for helping me to decide it was something I needed to do. As always, you’re right. I probably should have done it with you so you could give me emotional support. But anyway. Once I’ve settled in at the vineyard, I’ll call you again and we’ll work out a time to catch up.

PS – I’m at Oliver’s alone. He’s off with his girlfriend, who I’m keen to meet. I was ready to send this but then I got a call back from Chase, who didn’t end up coming. Apparently our father was released from prison a month ago. Quite a few years earlier than the law said he should be. Not too sure how I feel about that. At least being here with Oliver now is definitely right. I’ll let him know, and then Chase said he’ll touch base when he gets back from Croatia next month.

Lots to discuss.

Looking forward to seeing you again soon.

Peace,

Theo