I did my best to drive carefully, but it had been a long couple of days and I may have slipped into autopilot. The rain hammered unabated, visibility was shit. I was a minute down the road when I caught sight of a strange object – a rock? a fragment of wood? – in the middle of the bitumen. I slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. I was going to collect it.
Then, somehow, a shadowy, shrouded figure flew in from the left, snatched up whatever it was and landed in a heap on the far side of the road. I gasped. Had I hit it?
I grabbed my torch, jumped out and rushed back to the scene.
There was a man in a dripping oilskin jacket climbing to his feet, cradling something in his arms.
‘Are you okay?’ I called as I drew near.
He leaned forward and gently placed an oval object on the dirt verge. Four stumpy legs appeared, then a head, knobby and wobbling. I watched as the turtle tried to make sense of its surroundings, then trundled towards a roadside ditch. The creature seemed calm enough, but somewhere deep inside it was doubtless thinking: What the fuck just happened?
The animal’s eccentric saviour glanced in my direction, his face glistening. I shone the torchlight onto him. He might have been in his late thirties, with a scowl and an array of cuts and abrasions across his face.
The glisten was intermingled rainwater and blood.
‘Sir,’ I said, reaching for my phone. ‘I’m calling an ambulance. Are you injured anywhere other than your face?’
I moved closer to him but he angled a suspicious glance at me.
‘No need for an ambulance.’
‘I’m a police officer,’ I said. ‘You’ve sustained at least one injury that I can see. I need to know if there’s any more.’
‘I’m fine,’ he said, picking a hat off the ground and putting it on his head. He shook himself and an arc of water – or worse – whirled away. ‘I’d be better if you’d drive more carefully. There are all sorts of creatures out on the road at night.’
‘Sorry about that,’ I said. ‘At least let me look at you.’
He didn’t say no, so I gave him another shot of torchlight. He held his head back while I examined him. There was a cut on his forehead that appeared to be the source of most of the blood. Other than that, he didn’t seem too bad.
‘Can I ask your name?’ I asked.
‘If I can ask yours.’
‘I’m Jesse Redpath.’
‘Nash.’
‘Do you know where you are, Nash?’
‘Standing on the side of Ryan’s Road with a bossy woman manhandling my head.’
‘I need you to tell me how you feel,’ I pressed. ‘Are you experiencing any pain? Dizziness? How’s your neck? Your head? Your teeth?’
I saw his tongue move. ‘Still there.’
I raised his arm and felt his pulse. It appeared to be beating normally.
‘Strong hands,’ he commented.
I held them up. ‘Squeeze,’ I said, then grunted when he did so. He had strong hands himself. And an interesting face when it wasn’t scowling.
‘You didn’t actually hit me,’ he explained. ‘I just crashed into the ground with more force than I should have.’
I told him I’d be a lot happier if he’d let me call an ambulance, but he shook his head.
‘Appreciate your concern, but I’m not going to hospital. Not for this. Can’t leave the property just now. Lot of storm damage, fences wrecked, flooding down by the creek.’
‘Where is the property?’
He swept out a hand.
‘All round us. The house is just up the road.’
I felt something brush against my leg and jumped. It was a dog, a wet, weathered old border collie.
‘Ah, there you are, boy,’ said Nash, pushing a hand through his sodden fur and giving him a pat. ‘This is Flinders.’
‘What were you and Flinders doing,’ I asked, ‘out in the elements on a night like this?’
‘Been repairing a dam wall that collapsed in the storm. Had to do it quick or I could be out of water come spring.’
‘You don’t have a car?’
‘Went out in the tractor, but the creek rose so quickly I was cut off. I’ll come back in the morning and get it out.’
I gave the matter some consideration.
‘You seem okay,’ I said. ‘But I’m still not sure . . . Do you live alone?’
‘No.’
‘You’ve got family?’
‘I’ve got Flinders,’ he said. The dog looked up expectantly.
I couldn’t leave this guy out here on his own. If he walked a hundred metres down the road and dropped dead, it would be on my head. When I offered him a lift, he hesitated briefly, then accepted. He climbed in beside me. The dog jumped onto the back seat and shook himself. He was a smelly old boy.
‘So what were the police doing out here?’ Nash asked as we drove.
‘You haven’t heard? We had an incident earlier on.’
‘I’ve been busy all day. Storm caused a shitload of damage. What was the incident?’
‘Feller killed by a falling tree.’
He frowned. ‘Who was it?’
‘Raph Cambric.’
‘Jesus. Raph?’ His jaw dropped, and he glanced through the rear window with a look that was difficult to read; it might have been alarm, might have been sympathy. He took a deep breath and rubbed his temples.
‘You knew him?’ I asked.
‘Not well,’ he said with the air of one who didn’t know anybody well. ‘But we’re neighbours. My southern boundary is his northern one. We talk when there’s a need.’
Jeez, cheery sort of neighbour this guy would be. I peered at the road, pushed some hair out of my eyes and stifled a yawn.
‘Shift over?’ he asked.
‘Long bloody shift. Been going for days.’
He seemed to relax slightly, or maybe realised how rude he’d been and wanted to make amends. ‘You’ve got a hungry look about you. I couldn’t tempt you to a bowl of soup?’
I considered the offer. The pub kitchen could well be closed by now; other options were thin on the ground. I took a closer look at him. He had trustworthy eyes, from what I could see of them under the hat. They were dark and wide: outdoor eyes, accustomed to measuring and reflecting distances, looking for threats or opportunities.
‘What sort of soup?’
‘Flexible,’ he replied.
I shrugged. Why not? If he did turn out to be a creep, chances were I could handle myself. But he didn’t feel like a creep. A few hundred metres down the road he indicated a driveway. I turned into it and pulled up in front of a white weatherboard farmhouse nestled in a grove of cypress pines.