JOHN REACHED COACHWOOD ROAD, but instead of turning left into town, he turned right and made for the freeway.
They drove for more than half an hour and eventually turned into a narrow laneway. They reached a dilapidated building made from besser blocks, which looked as though it had once been a small dairy.
Shara unclipped her belt and followed John out of the car. The stench of stale horse urine and manure burned her nostrils. There was another foul smell too . . . something overpowering.
When she peered over the solid timber half-door, several wild-looking horses rushed to the other end of the building.
They were a heart-rending sight, thin and gaunt and utterly terrified. The smell, Shara realised, was a dead one over which they had all just trampled to get away from her. She dry-retched and put her hand over her mouth. ‘Brumbies,’ she gasped.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said John from behind her. ‘Get straight back into the car and close all the windows. Just in case it’s Hendra.’
Shara looked up at the big fig trees which hung over the old dairy block. They would have been planted there years ago to shade the dairy cattle, but these days they would be more likely to host huge colonies of bats, which feasted on the fruit and carried the deadly Hendra virus. Their droppings were all over the ground below and added to the foul smell.
Shara got back in the car and closed the door while John leaned against the back making phone calls. After a lengthy discussion he got back in the driver’s seat. ‘We’ll have to wait for the police and the RSPCA to arrive before we try to move them,’ he said. ‘Sorry you had to see that, Shara.’
‘Who do they belong to?’
‘The Connemans, we think.’
‘Are they brumbies?’
‘I think so.’
Shara could hardly believe it. ‘Now do you believe us?’ she said, almost in tears again. She pointed out the window. ‘Those people do that sort of thing and the whole town, including our parents, think we’re the demons. Why are you guys all so mad at us? Why aren’t you mad at the Connemans?’
John held his hand up in a gesture that asked her to stop. She shut up, but breathed heavily with anger.
‘You know, Shara,’ John started. ‘When I read about that spray-painting stunt in the paper, I thought it was great. I knew straight away who had done it and I thought it was gutsy.’
‘And you didn’t punish Elliot?’
‘What?’ said John. ‘I didn’t know he was involved!’
Whoops! Shara smiled weakly at John. ‘He took the photos and emailed them to the newspaper.’
John exhaled loudly. ‘That Grace Arnold. She’s got him wrapped around her little finger.’
Shara suppressed a smirk. That was so true.
‘Anyway, I knew it was your group of friends in general, what with Judy Arnold being an animal rescuer from way back and that Luke kid having such a strong liking for brumbies.’
‘Actually, Luke wasn’t involved in that bit.’
John huffed impatiently. ‘The point I’m trying to make is that I agreed with you. With that bit, anyway. That stunt got a lot of people talking about brumbies and how they’re treated. I grew up in the northern tablelands of New South Wales. Up there, nearly every station used the local wildies for stock work. The stockmen knew no other breed came close to them for toughness. I’d love to see more of them be re-homed instead of being turned into pet meat and used in rodeos.’
‘People just think they’re feral. No one cares about them.’
‘A lot of people care very deeply about brumbies. But this sort of thing’s not uncommon. They have such little monetary value and when they’re fresh from the wild, they’re hard to handle, so people just abandon them.’
‘But all the buckjumpers and cattle are treated okay.’
‘People like the Connemans treat most of their stock well because that’s their business and they have to look after them. But the brumbies are bought cheap from the runners for the price of dog meat. They get rough-handled by the runners and come to the contractors out of their minds – and that’s how the Connemans like them for rodeo, because it’s more entertaining. When they’re finished with them, it’s cheaper and easier to just dump them; buy another lot later.’
John looked out the window at the bleak grey building. ‘These horses are probably waiting for an abattoir to pick them up. The Connemans didn’t bother leaving feed or water because they were going to die anyway.’
Shara was speechless. She stared out the car window and thought of the dismal creatures in that building, and then thought of Goldie galloping playfully around the paddock with his silvery mane flying in the breeze. ‘That is so wrong.’
‘Yes,’ agreed John.
‘So why the Hendra scare?’
‘Because as soon as the authorities get here, the first thing they’ll notice is that big fig tree full of bats. Hendra will be the first thing they have to rule out.’
Outside, an RSPCA van and two police cars rolled towards the dairy. John got out and started pulling on protective clothing from the back of his car.
Shara stayed put while John helped people in bright blue paper suits and face masks tape off a quarantine area with yellow ribbon.
Within half an hour the place was swarming with people, including some with cameras. Were they the media? How did they find out? The police seemed to be asking them to leave.
She rang her mum and told her where she was and what had happened. Louise insisted on coming to collect her immediately, making Shara promise faithfully not to contract any lethal viruses. As she hung up, John’s phone rang on the seat beside her. She picked it up.
‘John Duggin’s phone.’
‘Who’s that?’ said a vaguely familiar voice.
‘It’s Shara Wilson. John is tending to a horse right now. Can I take a message?’
There was a small pause before the person spoke again. ‘Yeah, tell him Corey called.’
Shara reeled. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Her mind whirled with questions. Are you okay? Are you still in hospital? While her mouth flapped soundlessly, there was an awkward silence as he waited for her to say something.
‘Okay then? Bye.’
The phone disconnected before she could utter a word.
‘No, wait!’ She sat in the car, befuddled, wondering if she should call him back. Was he angry with her? Of course he was. He had taken a hit for her, protected her, probably saved her life, and she hadn’t even managed to say hello to him. What must he think of her?
John opened the driver’s door. ‘I think we should get you home,’ he said. ‘This will take forever and we need to get all unnecessary people away from here.’
‘Mum’s already on her way.’
He nodded with approval.
‘Corey rang. Wants you to ring him back.’
‘Okay.’ John nodded again, but his mind seemed somewhere else. His face carried a look of absolute disgust. ‘I’ve come across some rank people, but these guys . . .’ He seemed unable to find words for them.
Shara looked at the scene around the old dairy. The people in blue suits carried a large tarpaulin to cover the dead brumby’s body. ‘Poor thing.’
‘What a waste of a beautiful horse,’ said John.
‘What will happen to the rest of the brumbies?’
‘The RSPCA will contact some rescue groups and see if anyone can take them.’
Shara nodded, wishing she could take all of them, but they were so wild and freaked out, way beyond anything she could handle. ‘God, I hope they don’t get Goldie,’ she thought out loud.
The lines deepened over John’s brow and Shara saw a hardness in his eyes. ‘No way am I going to let that happen.’