Page 27 of Wings Above the Mallee

The impact threw him sideways across the rear seat.

Metal screeched on metal. Glass shattered.

Then silence.

Nothing except blackness and the moisture on his face.

The music playing.

He couldn’t see from his left eye. He put a hand to his face, a sticky mess pulsing beneath his fingertips. Had he lost his eye? For a mad moment, he felt he should still be able to see from it, that the detached eyeball was rolling around on the floor of the car, transmitting a vision of the stash of lost coins and pens beneath the front seats.

And then the screaming started.

Heath sucked in a great breath, his lungs spasming as though punishing him for having the audacity to believe he should be permitted to draw breath. Was this dream, this memory, any better than the regular one? At least this time his nightmare hadn’t put him in the front seat, responsible for Charlee’s driving. Could that mean that, after two years, his subconscious was finally letting him off the hook?

As he tried to unclench his fists, the knuckles locked and aching, he shook his head. No. Back seat, front seat; it made no difference. The accident was his fault.

An angry mosquito above the farmhouse, the drone of the single-engine plane, brought his head up. He’d seen Amelia in Settlers Bridge a few times over the last month, which meant he’d been hanging around the town more than he’d done over the entirety of the previous year. The first time had been to drop off the second lamb, which she’d laughingly named Kismet, stressing the ‘e’ so it sounded like a bleat. He’d been careful not to mention her need to nurture animals again. Her reaction in the pub had been odd, to saythe least, and he didn’t want to be in the position of having to deal with her if she chucked another funny turn. So he’d cut the visit short, using the excuse that Sean was waiting in the car—though getting Dad to remain in there had been a mission in itself. Sean was all for taking the opportunity to get to know Amelia—along with everyone else in the town—better.

Another time had been when he’d reluctantly agreed to go to the stock market with Sean, and had ducked into Ploughs and Pies to get their coffee. He knew the silence of the two women in the cafe meant they’d discuss him the minute he was out of the door, but exchanging a brief greeting with Amelia outside the IGA had somehow dispelled his irritation over still being the subject of small-town gossip.

Evidently, Amelia had kept her job, because she’d also been at the second Regional Action Group meeting. She’d drawn the short straw again and stayed to lock up after them. Not that the meeting had run late. The group had unanimously decided they were happy to wait for Ethan’s research into skateparks to eventuate rather than investigate other ventures or projects. Moving anything ahead in this town was going to be a slow uphill grind. He knew the RAG would sit on the one idea for months, chewing it over like a piece of gristle, then probably never commit to anything. He should cut his losses and stop attending the meetings. Or take a six-month break, and no doubt step right back in where he’d left. With no forward momentum, the RAG was just a group of people entertaining themselves with a load of pointless back-and-forth on Thursday nights—but now he’d got the skatepark idea in his head, it was hard to let go. Even if it had been Ethan’s suggestion, he could see the merit in providing somewhere for kids to hang out. He’d grown up in the country himself, and recognised that, from an adult’s point of view,it was the perfect life: fresh air, open space, rivers, motorbikes, plenty of sports clubs. Yet he could still remember that, as a pre-driving teen, being stuck out in the bush was a death sentence: nothing to do, nowhere to go to hang out with mates, no fast food, no entertainment that wasn’t overseen by adult coaches and cheered on by over-involved parents.

Unsurprisingly, Ethan had sent his apologies instead of attending the second RAG. Or perhaps that was surprising, given that it meant the guy was actually aware of his obligations, even if he failed to act on them. The call from Ethan was more contact than Heath had had from Charlee in the past month. In fact, it had been Ethan who’d told Sean that Charlee was back at uni full-time, despite his daughter flagging her intention to drop out when Heath had tried to have an encouraging word before she left.

Old Dave must have enjoyed the last board meeting—or, more likely, he’d enjoyed the bring-a-plate tea that followed—as he’d moved for another pointless meeting Thursday week, saying that community members should be invited to air their views.

Heath flung aside the quilt with a grunt of annoyance. He didn’t have time to waste on the small-town bickering. No, that wasn’t true—he had plenty of time, just no intention of getting embroiled in the brewing debacle. Dave had signalled his resolve to oppose the skatepark at every turn, and had likely used the time between meetings to enlist his supporters, beating up the potential for increased drug problems in the town. Oddly, Heath hadn’t caught any of the RAG committee looking sideways at Charlee in that first meeting. Perhaps it wasn’t obvious to them that she was buzzed. Or maybe—and the thought gave him the tiniest bit of hope—she hadn’t been? Or perhaps—and far more likely—she was building a tolerance to the drugs.

The plane circled again and his mind followed it as he made for the vintage pink-and-green tiled bathroom. Amelia had mentioned that she was taking her mate, Gavin, for a flight early today. She had a pretty good life, working part-time and cruising the skies the rest, free as a bird. Obviously, she had made all the right choices in life or rubbed the right genie lamp, or something like that. It was unfair how some people had all the luck.

Ten minutes later, he ambled into the kitchen, irritably pushing his wet hair into place.

‘Looks like you’re due for a cut,’ Sean observed over the rim of his coffee mug. He would have been up for a couple of hours by now, was probably on his third coffee. For some reason, he’d recently started taking it without sugar, and Heath wondered how he could tolerate so much of the bitter brew so early.

‘Yeah. I’ll cadge a lift into Adelaide when you go to AA.’ The irony didn’t escape him. Where most men his age would be thrilled to be hanging onto their hair, the genetic blessing that he carried from Dad was more of a curse. Heath ran a hand across his head. ‘Maybe I’ll get the lot shaved off. You know, like that bludger.’

‘Ethan? With a Master’s degree, I’m not sure you can call him a bludger,’ Sean responded mildly. It was funny: years back, he’d had a hot Irish temper. Heath was never sure whether the temper had disappeared with the booze, or if perhaps it was the alcoholic removal of inhibitions that had previously robbed him of the ability to keep it under control.

‘Classic move for someone who doesn’t want to work. Keep studying, keep adding to a HECS debt.’

Sean dunked a gingernut biscuit in the last of his coffee. ‘He works, lad. He’s part-time at a skate shop.’

Heath scoffed. ‘Hardly a job.’

‘A skate shop he owns. If you’d taken the time to talk with him, you’d have found that out.’

‘Got a vested interest in this skatepark idea then, hasn’t he? Don’t you think that should be declared to the RAG?’

‘I’m far more concerned about his interest in Charlee.’

‘Exactly!’ Heath pulled a chair up to the table and poured from the pot Sean had placed there. ‘You figured out his age?’

‘Nope. But I think he’s maybe not as old as he appears. Had a hard life, by the sounds of it.’

It irritated him that Sean had so quickly flipped to defending the guy. ‘You found out all that from him in one visit?’

Sean stood and took his mug to the sink. ‘Wasn’t all from him. Charlee called a couple of times, filled in some blanks.’

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