I now knew a lot more than I cared to about the niceties of bovine TB, but I still couldn’t fathom why Gaby would choose it as a subject worth writing about. It was topical for our area, but it was pretty technical, and I sure as hell wouldn’t have classed it as human interest.
At the end of Trev’s driveway, I slowed up and checked optimistically for traffic. As usual, there wasn’t any. The only activity was a harrier hawk down to my left taking care of some roadkill. I pulled out and headed on to my next destination: Phillip Rawlings’. He was another feature on Gaby’s follow-up list and also, curiously, another victim of the cattle rustlers. His property wasn’t too far from Trev’s, just a side road off from the main track back to town. I hadn’t made an appointment, but I was happy to try my luck. So far it seemed to be holding.
As I drove, my fingers, unbidden, tapped along to some catchy, static-ridden country tune on the radio. Why would the rustlers do two properties in one night? Why not just fill up their truck at one farm and reduce their risk of being caught out? It didn’t make sense. Unless they had some warped sense of social conscience that made them want to halve the burden of loss by sharing it around. Yeah, right.
My mind drifted back to Gaby, and the skull and crossbones on her to-do list. What if Gaby’s death was linked to her investigation into TB? It seemed a bit of a stretch, and I had no real grounds to base the idea on, but I just couldn’t think of anything else in her life that could cause someone to kill her. I couldn’t, of course, completely rule out Dr Walden, but instinct told me he was a sideshow in this case, and that Gaby’s research into TB was somehow important. So here was another item for research that night: look at the economic impact a higher rate of TB would have on the country. The disease was already present in a very small percentage of livestock, so it wasn’t a high threat to biosecurity. There was the odd report in the newspaper about farms reporting an outbreak, but it was never front-page material. A phone call to the Ministry of Primary Industries might also be in order, to see if they were concerned about any particular farms in our area. I desperately needed to sit down and have a good hunt through Gaby’s laptop – check her email and look at any websites she’d visited recently. The laptop was still sitting on the front passenger seat; ever the optimist, I’d brought it along for the ride in case I had a bit of time to kill.
Lockie’s ute left a bit to be desired. It was an archaic piece of shit that lacked the creature comforts of air-conditioning and power steering, not to mention a decent stereo – I’d turned it off in disgust. The suspension was as hard as hell, and now the damned thing was starting to pull noticeably to the left. Somehow, I didn’t think it was just the camber on the road. I pulled over onto the side, half on the grass, half on gravel, turned off the engine and hopped out to investigate.
‘Oh, bloody marvellous.’
The bottom half of the left rear tyre was doing a pretty good impression of a pancake. A flat – and it was still a good ten kilometres into town. I could call for help. But who? Couldn’t call work: I wasn’t one of the in-crowd any more. Besides, the guys would never let me live it down. Trev’s place was relatively close, but that somehow seemed a bit defeatist: after all, girls can do anything. I didn’t think Lockie would appreciate it if I wrecked the wheel rim by attempting to drive it the rest of the way home. I’d just have to change the thing myself. I’d changed plenty of tyres before – on cars. How hard could it be? The ute was simply bigger. Surely?
One of my brothers had a similar type of ute, and it had a storage space behind the rear seats. I hauled myself into the driver’s seat, clambered over to the back seat and pulled it down. Sure enough, there nestled behind it were the jack and toolkit. It was a good start.
I hopped out again and walked around the back to open the canopy door and get out the spare tyre. Apart from a few grimylooking rags and excess dog hair it was empty. OK, let’s think. If I were a guy, where would I hide it? Of course, the most awkward place I could. Canopied ute; it must be…
‘Underneath.’ I crouched down and looked under at the chassis. Bingo, there it was.
‘Oh shit.’ I recalled the river of cow shit I’d just driven through twice at Trev’s place. The underside of the ute, including the spare tyre, was plastered in it. Of course, being out to impress, I was wearing one of my best shirts and only decent pair of trousers. I stood up, and took a moment to adjust to the head rush. Then there was nothing for it. The deed had to be done. If I couldn’t rely on anyone coming to my rescue, at least I could save the shirt. I took it off, folded it and placed it across the front seat of the cab. Thank God for singlets. They might not be spectacularly sexy, but they serve their purpose in keeping you warm. In light of the poo situation, I was pleased I hadn’t gone for a lacy camisole. And at least I wasn’t reduced to only wearing a bra.
‘What are you staring at?’ I said to a curious cow that had sauntered over, its face stretching over the wire-and-batten fence. ‘Just ’cause I haven’t got a twinset. You jealous?’
I poked my head back underneath the ute to see how the spare tyre was secured. Just by a couple of bolts, apparently; so I grabbed the spanner, lay down on my back and wriggled my way into position underneath the tyre. The odd bit of gravel that had sprayed off from the road bit into my skin. I gritted my teeth and kept wriggling until positioned directly under the bloody thing. I could see I was going to have to be careful the sucker didn’t fall straight down and crush me to death. Wouldn’t that be a marvellous way to go?
I set to and loosened the nuts with the spanner. Lying on my back, arms up, proved to be damned hard work. I had to pause and shake my arms out a few times before I finally got the nuts to the point where they only needed another couple of turns. The stench under there was not pretty and I was trying not to breathe too deeply.
How was I going to manage this? If I undid one nut first, then, as I undid the other, I could catch the wheel on my hands and knees. I’d then roll over to the side and get it on the ground. Sounded good in theory. In reality, manoeuvring the wheel in that confined space was difficult and my muscles strained under the awkward weight of the thing. My hands were slick with shit and I didn’t even want to imagine how my trousers looked. Eventually, I got the wheel onto the ground without doing myself a mischief. I stopped for a quick breather, and then rolled over onto my stomach to wriggle backwards and drag the poxy thing out. Whoever thought of putting the spare there should have been shot at dawn. Just about out, I cleared the edge of the bumper, then popped up onto my hands and knees.
Crack.
What felt like a baseball bat hit me squarely on the back of the head.
My face hit the gravel and I lay there, dazed, watching the display of fireworks that shot before my eyes.
‘Fucking towbar!’ I reached my hand to the back of my head, and felt dampness. I then realised it must have been the cow shit I’d just smeared through my hair. Fan-bloody-tastic.
With a little more care and a big swerve to the side I pulled myself up onto my hands and knees and stayed there swaying for a bit. There was going to be an industrial-sized lump on the back of my head. Getting up like that had been a stupid, careless thing to do.
‘Bugger this.’
I eased myself up onto my feet and used the side of the ute as support to stagger back to the cab for the cellphone. I’d save my ‘girls-can-do-anything’ mantra for another occasion. I’d just have to suck up my pride and call for reinforcements. I’d ring Paul. He’d just love that. The whole station would.
I looked at the zero bars of signal on the useless flaming thing, and threw the phone unceremoniously back onto the seat.
‘Bugger,’ I yelled, startling the whole collection of cattle that had now gathered around for the show. Of course there’d be no bloody signal out here in the sticks. In this day and age it was crazy that there were cellphone reception dead spots, this wasn’t the Third World – this was a flaming well-to-do nation. But there were, and Sod’s law said there would be one here, today.
I looked back down the road towards Trev’s place and tried to calculate how long the walk would take. Too long.
‘Oh for God’s sake, get hard, girl.’ I marched around the back again and grabbed the jack. I wasn’t going to be beaten by something as mundane as a bloody flat tyre. I positioned it under something solid-looking down the side and proceeded to do business lifting up the rear of the truck. The exertion didn’t do my head any favours and I needed several pauses to clear the giddiness. Finally, I had the offending wheel raised in the air. A small victory. I grabbed the wheel brace, popped it over the first nut to hand and tried to loosen the damned thing.
‘Oh bloody hell.’
All that succeeded in doing was spinning the wheel around. Even the cows laughed.
Use your brain, woman – of course I was going to need a bit of traction. I marvelled at how truly stupid I could be. I released the jack enough for the wheel to grip on the ground and tried again. It became apparent very quickly that the power my fifty-three-kilogram frame could exert wasn’t going to produce enough force to loosen anything.
‘Shit.’ I tried another nut. All that straining on the wheel brace did was hurt my hands. And perhaps induced a haemorrhoid.
Desperate situations called for desperate measures. I swung the wheel brace around so that I’d apply the force in the right direction and not tighten the bloody thing: rightie tightie, leftie loosie rang inside my head – thanks, Dad. I leaned against the side of the ute for support, then carefully climbed up onto the brace and balanced precariously. I gave a small jump.
Nothing.
A little movement.
That was hopeful.
Throwing caution to the wind, I tried the biggest jump I was game for. My feet came down on the bar; the bar shot down a few centimetres and threw my balance off. As my feet headed to the earth, I knew this was going to hurt.
‘Bugger, bugger, bitch, bum, piss, cock, fart,’ I roared, loud enough to send the cows scattering. Good as that statement felt, it didn’t quite cut it.
‘Ahhhh, fuck it all to hell.’ I lashed out and hit the side of the door with my hand, which hurt me more than the ute, then slid down its side and landed in a bloody, dusty, shit-covered heap on the ground. The sobs burst out of their own accord; it was futile to try and control them. I rolled up my trouser leg and cringed at the sight of the gouge down the front of my shin that was now welling up with blood. Hot tears flowed down my cheeks and I angrily wiped them away, only to realise that I had now applied a shiny coating of cow shit to my face.
All that to move one nut.
There were five more to go.