A round the middle of day three I received a visit from Vince Tehlich. He came bearing flowers, grapes and a selection of magazines. I took a look at the magazines.
‘Surfing?’
‘All we had in the station. Katie’s into it.’ Katie? Ah, yes, the new constable and kitchen whiz, she of the drizzled chocolate cookies.
‘Glad you didn’t go to too much trouble.’
‘She thought you’d like ’em. She also sent these.’
He pulled out a bag of the cookies.
‘Now you’re talking,’ I said. ‘Props to Katie.’
‘We heard you were having trouble eating.’
I flashed him a gappy smile.
He took a seat and we had a conversation much like most of those I’d had with my visitors over the past couple of days: the quality of the food, sleep, wounds and views. I assured him they were all pretty ordinary. I told him the doctors had said I should be discharged the next day, which suited me fine. I was keen to get out of there.
Vince did have one significant piece of information: Nash would be out tomorrow as well, all charges officially dropped.
I was thrilled, but I also felt a slight tremor of anxiety. I was rapt that Nash was getting back to his apples and eagles, and pleased to have been able to make a contribution to his release. But what did it mean for me? For us? So obsessed had I been with gaining his freedom, I hadn’t given a moment’s thought to what it would be like to hold him in my arms again – if it got that far. We were an odd couple, a pair of hard-bitten eccentrics whose eccentricities may have flowed in the same direction from time to time, but were just as likely to spark each other up like a set of errant jumper leads. Each of us was accustomed to the pleasure of our own company. From what I’d learned of his past life, it was obvious he’d be a hard man to live with. Rumour had it, I wasn’t all peaches and cream myself.
‘Any idea what time tomorrow?’ I asked.
‘Depends on how thick and twisted the red tape is – or the people charged with untangling it. But they generally get out early afternoon. The Police Association’s got a peer support program. They’re gonna pick him up and bring him home.’
‘That’s decent of them.’ Nash was going to need all the peer support they could muster.
I’d been wondering if I should go down to greet him at the remand centre but this would be better. I decided I’d go home as soon as possible – this afternoon if they’d let me. First thing in the morning I’d go to his house and get it ready: give it a sweep and a clean, light the fire, repair the door. Maybe I could even pick up the dog. Flinders and I could hobble out to greet him together. I was surprised to find myself almost shyly looking forward to holding Nash in my arms again. I really liked that man – maybe could even come to love him – and was nervously hoping he’d feel something similar for me. I caught a glimpse of myself in the bedside mirror and groaned, again, about my missing tooth. Jesus! I finally get a reason to make myself presentable and some bastard goes and smashes me in the mouth. Ah well, Nash could like it or lump it.
I asked Vince if he’d mind giving me a lift back to Windmark, to which he readily agreed. It took us a couple of hours to get the paperwork sorted and to pick up the selection of pills and potions the doctors insisted I consume, then we were on our way. I rang Dad to tell him I was going home, then a couple of minutes later I received a call from Lucy Takada, insisting I stay at the Bluehouse. A warm house, hot food, friends and family to check up on me in case I carked it in the night – how could I say no? I could head up to Nash’s place first thing in the morning.
Vince dropped me off at the Bluehouse an hour later. Lucy and Sam, Possum, Dad, even Karly, all came out and gave me the sweetest welcome imaginable. I was given the seat of honour – the royal blue armchair by the fire – and tea and scones smothered in cream and Possum’s legendary blackberry jam. The culinary highlight of the evening was the sourdough bread pudding Lucy had whipped up in my honour. Alas, I couldn’t do it justice. I wasn’t even halfway through the dessert when the traumas of the past few days began to catch up with me: my head was throbbing, my chest aching. I winced once or twice when I raised the spoon.
Lucy was keeping a sharp eye on me and insisted it was time for bed. No objections from me. Bed was bliss, especially compared to some of the crappy sleeping experiences I’d been enduring of late: wet blankets, cold swags, nights disrupted by falling trees, noisy nurses and bovver-booted killers. Here it was all flannel sheets, thick doonas and hot water bottles in soft covers. I was asleep almost before my head hit the pillow.