wet crack of a tree branch out in the bush, and the thud of it landing on the sodden earth. ‘There’s Hagrid now.’
He smiled. ‘Thank you for not being upset. I should have explained. I promise I won’t leave like that again.’
Sarah could only guess how lost and weak she must look to him – ill-fitting clothes, socks bunched around her ankles, soggy soles from standing in a puddle, bloodshot eyes, white complexion, lank hair and a bruised face.
‘We’ll hang tough together,’ he said. ‘You think?’
‘I’m not sure we’ve got much say in it. Looks like we’ll have to share the caravan until the bugs move their house of horrors elsewhere.’
‘We’ll share it anyway. I didn’t mean to start us off on the wrong foot. I’ll make up for it, you’ll see. We’ll be a team, hey?’
This time her dreams were underwater. It was a dream that had no people in it and no images and no thread or theme, she simply knew she was at the bottom of a sea. She woke. It was dark. It was still raining. Heath was beside her in the bed. She could tell he hadn’t slept yet. He was shivering under the blankets. His teeth knocked and chattered.
The longer Sarah lay there the more she realised that her time spent sleeping had been short – a ten-minute nap at most. The type of rest animals have; quick bouts of slumber, and then alert again, one ear to the weather, the other ear tuned to all other sounds.
‘I wonder how bad it is downstream?’ she said.
‘Be bad I reckon.’
‘The rain will have to stop soon.’
‘Doesn’t it keep up for seven days and seven nights?’
‘It feels like that.’
She was lying on her back. She edged her hand up and touched her jaw where it was tender, she probed the inside of her mouth with her tongue, tested the sore spots by sucking lightly on them.
Heath must have guessed, or sensed, what she was doing. ‘Your face hurting?’
Sarah snaked her hand under the blanket and closed her eyes against the damp air. ‘It’s okay.’
He continued shivering intensely, chattering his teeth. He had his back to her. They had used up all the dry shirts, and his top half was bare. She had given him her shorts so he didn’t have to sleep naked. Sarah was warm enough beneath the one remaining flannelette shirt, hot compared to him. The rifle ammunition was now buttoned into the top pocket of her shirt, digging into her breast.
‘How old are you?’ she asked.
‘Twenty-eight.’
Sarah spooned her lower body in behind him. He moaned with her warmth.
‘Shh, no moaning.’
‘Ohh,’ he said breathing deeper and relaxing back into her, ‘Thank you.’
‘No ohh-ing either.’
As a tease he muttered a lusty ‘Oh God, yesss . . .’
She was silent. She could tell he smiled.
When he next spoke his tone was solemn. ‘I am sorry about leaving.’
There was a vulnerable crack in his voice as he said this. Sarah pretended not to have noticed it, not noticing that, or how unexpectedly familiar his body felt against hers, or how the rain had cleaned his hair and made it soft, how it had washed the mud away and left him smelling like the bush, wet eucalyptus leaves and damp bark, a cold steel smell of wet rock and the fresh scent of water-laden fern fronds. He was stripped of his own oils and scrubbed clean, no Heath scent present, or maybe a hint of it. If she cancelled out the bush aromas, in her nostrils was a trace of something warmer. All the socks were wet now too. Both their feet were bare. The tops of her toes rested against his insteps. Sarah sensed his awareness of her breathing in his scent. ‘You smell like the bush, how far did you go looking for reception?’
‘Past that log. I’ve been up here before with mates and seemed to remember reception being pretty good over there.’
‘Is it drugs?’
Her words hung in the dark air.
He answered after a pause. ‘Nothing hardcore – I swear.’ Said in a voice loud enough to get above the sound of the rain spilling in
He smiled. ‘Thank you for not being upset. I should have explained. I promise I won’t leave like that again.’
Sarah could only guess how lost and weak she must look to him – ill-fitting clothes, socks bunched around her ankles, soggy soles from standing in a puddle, bloodshot eyes, white complexion, lank hair and a bruised face.
‘We’ll hang tough together,’ he said. ‘You think?’
‘I’m not sure we’ve got much say in it. Looks like we’ll have to share the caravan until the bugs move their house of horrors elsewhere.’
‘We’ll share it anyway. I didn’t mean to start us off on the wrong foot. I’ll make up for it, you’ll see. We’ll be a team, hey?’
This time her dreams were underwater. It was a dream that had no people in it and no images and no thread or theme, she simply knew she was at the bottom of a sea. She woke. It was dark. It was still raining. Heath was beside her in the bed. She could tell he hadn’t slept yet. He was shivering under the blankets. His teeth knocked and chattered.
The longer Sarah lay there the more she realised that her time spent sleeping had been short – a ten-minute nap at most. The type of rest animals have; quick bouts of slumber, and then alert again, one ear to the weather, the other ear tuned to all other sounds.
‘I wonder how bad it is downstream?’ she said.
‘Be bad I reckon.’
‘The rain will have to stop soon.’
‘Doesn’t it keep up for seven days and seven nights?’
‘It feels like that.’
She was lying on her back. She edged her hand up and touched her jaw where it was tender, she probed the inside of her mouth with her tongue, tested the sore spots by sucking lightly on them.
Heath must have guessed, or sensed, what she was doing. ‘Your face hurting?’
Sarah snaked her hand under the blanket and closed her eyes against the damp air. ‘It’s okay.’
He continued shivering intensely, chattering his teeth. He had his back to her. They had used up all the dry shirts, and his top half was bare. She had given him her shorts so he didn’t have to sleep naked. Sarah was warm enough beneath the one remaining flannelette shirt, hot compared to him. The rifle ammunition was now buttoned into the top pocket of her shirt, digging into her breast.
‘How old are you?’ she asked.
‘Twenty-eight.’
Sarah spooned her lower body in behind him. He moaned with her warmth.
‘Shh, no moaning.’
‘Ohh,’ he said breathing deeper and relaxing back into her, ‘Thank you.’
‘No ohh-ing either.’
As a tease he muttered a lusty ‘Oh God, yesss . . .’
She was silent. She could tell he smiled.
When he next spoke his tone was solemn. ‘I am sorry about leaving.’
There was a vulnerable crack in his voice as he said this. Sarah pretended not to have noticed it, not noticing that, or how unexpectedly familiar his body felt against hers, or how the rain had cleaned his hair and made it soft, how it had washed the mud away and left him smelling like the bush, wet eucalyptus leaves and damp bark, a cold steel smell of wet rock and the fresh scent of water-laden fern fronds. He was stripped of his own oils and scrubbed clean, no Heath scent present, or maybe a hint of it. If she cancelled out the bush aromas, in her nostrils was a trace of something warmer. All the socks were wet now too. Both their feet were bare. The tops of her toes rested against his insteps. Sarah sensed his awareness of her breathing in his scent. ‘You smell like the bush, how far did you go looking for reception?’
‘Past that log. I’ve been up here before with mates and seemed to remember reception being pretty good over there.’
‘Is it drugs?’
Her words hung in the dark air.
He answered after a pause. ‘Nothing hardcore – I swear.’ Said in a voice loud enough to get above the sound of the rain spilling in
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