Ringer (9 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Miranda

Drunk!

I was going to get so,
so drunk. And I didn’t mean drinking alone in my room like a sad sack; no, I
wanted to get as far away from Moira Station as I could manage, far away from
him.

I had worked it all
out.

“You have to cover for
me.” I made sure I caught Moira’s eyes in the reflection of the mirror as I
hooked in the last of my earrings. “Do you hear me?”

Moira looked confused.
“Miranda, you’re twenty-four years old, why are you sneaking around like a
teenager? Just tell Mum and Dad you’re going to the Commercial.”

I knew it was
ridiculous keeping secrets from my parents at my age, but the last time I was
at the Commercial, well, it hadn’t ended so well. Even though I was sure after
all these years I had proven I had turned over a new leaf, as far as my first
impressions were concerned, being back, well, I hadn’t exactly done myself any
favours. The last thing I needed was to hear any lectures from them, especially
now that I was in the foulest mood possible.

“Please, Moira, just do
what I ask. Remember, I have gone to Mel’s for the night. If they ask how I got
there say you don’t know, okay?” I turned from the mirror, smoothing over the
fabric of my black skirt. “How do I look?”

Moira sneered in her
usual fashion. “Overdressed.”

“Shut up. I am not;
this is smart casual.” I nodded defiantly, turning to the mirror again.

“Exactly, and you’re
headed to the Commercial Hotel in Ballan,” she added.

I bit my lip, studying
my reflection. I hated to have to take fashion advice off my thirteen-year-old
sister. Still, I met her gaze in the mirror. “Jeans, then?”

She smiled, jumping up
from the bed and grabbing them for me. “You’re not in Paris anymore, Toto.”

She could say that
again.

***

Okay, so I had to admit
the jeans were a better idea, even more so now that I found myself straddled
over one of Max’s dirt bikes, my getaway rig for the evening. I gunned it
across the paddock like Steve McQueen in
The
Great Escape
, dust
and the ear-piercing, high-pitched whines as I fishtailed it across the dirt,
my adrenalin pumping as I put distance between me and Moira Station, but more
importantly, from Ringer. The sound of the floorboards squeaking underneath his
feet in the room next door was enough to make my blood boil, and then the
memory would always inevitably flash back to what I had done.

Oh God! He had seen
me naked.

I revved the
accelerator some more and sped along the paddock hoping that the speed would wipe
away my shame. Although the absolute look of shock on his face and
embarrassment had been worth it, and I did get my towel back, it was almost
like I had given him a small part of myself. Now every time he looked at me, I
could feel the weight of his stare. I had empowered him, and I hated myself for
that. It had taken every fibre of my being not to sneak a peek when he flung
his towel towards me; at least I might have felt better about it. Seeing him
equally exposed would have made us even. But then the real horror occurred to
me; it wasn’t the fact he had seen me naked that really bothered me. It was the
fact that for the smallest of moments, as he looked at me, as he stood so close
to me, I could feel the dampness of his freshly washed skin next to mine. It
was the absolute horror that the way he looked at me excited me and the worst
part of it was he fucking well knew it.

Having left just on
dusk I had everything worked out, so I wasn’t entirely lying. I was actually
going to see Mel … kind of, in-as-much as we would rendezvous at the
T-intersection where she would be waiting with my getaway vehicle. She would
take the bike back to her place and I would take her work ute. It wasn’t a
grand entrance, but it sure beat heading down the main street of Ballan on a
dirt bike. As it were, I could always park the ute up the street a bit. The one
downfall that was clear was the high possibility of helmet hair. Still, these
were my ridiculously limited options.

Sure enough, like a
well-formed mission that had been planned down to every meticulous detail, Mel
was waiting for me. I came to a skidding halt, kicking the stand out so I could
climb off, making sure to remove my helmet before it did too much damage. Mel
leant up against her Land Cruiser, smiling and jingling the keys.

“Just like old times,
huh?” She laughed.

“Well, not entirely, I
hope,” I said, passing the helmet to her and grabbing the keys, swiping at the
dust on my clothes and trying to tame my hair.

“You sure you can’t
come?” I asked.

“No chance, we’re
headed for Wahroo in the morning, got to be up by four.” Mel winced.

“So you sure Bluey
won’t miss this?” I opened the car door to the Land Cruiser.

“Nah, it’s mine anyway,
and I usually keep it out back, so he won’t even notice.”

I climbed in and slammed
the door shut. Mel rested her elbows on the open window.

“You’re not going to
get smashed and drive home, are you?” Her big blue eyes shrouded in concern.

My eyes rested on hers,
but more vividly on the half-moon scar just below her left eye. It served as a
permanent reminder of the last time I had been to the Commercial, of the trip
back where we didn’t make it home.

I swallowed the memory
down and started up the car; I shouldn’t have asked her to do this, to be an
accessory to my dodgy ways, years later … and it was still the same shit,
different story.

“I’ll get a lift back,
I won’t drive,” I said in all seriousness.

“Well, maybe just have
a few, I’m sure that would be okay?” she said quickly, as if she had regretted
saying anything.

“No, it’s okay, I am
sure someone can drop me home.” I smiled.

“Well, if you walk up
to the post office before eleven you can grab the last courtesy bus. They run
one now from town on weekends,” she said with a newfound hope in her eyes.

Eleven? Pfft.

“I’ll work it out. Thanks,
Mel, I owe you one,” I said, starting up the Land Cruiser and flicking the
lights on. “Have fun in Wahroo.”

“At a cattle auction? I
seriously doubt it.”

“Well, you’ll have Mum,
Dad and Moira to keep you company next weekend.”

Mel blinked in
confusion. “Next weekend?” she repeated. “I thought they were heading Monday
night?”

My head spun around so
fast, I almost committed a neck injury. “Monday night? As in tomorrow night?”

Mel winced as if she
regretted saying anything. “That’s what I heard.”

“But they weren’t meant
to go until the weekend; Dad was going to show Ringer the ropes and by then
Bluey would be back in case he needed anything,” I blurted out in a panic.

“I guess Ringer is
going to get a one-day handover; your dad must think …”

“Well, clearly he isn’t
thinking. The idea is ludicrous,” I all but shouted, my hands clenched on the
steering wheel with rage.

My mind raced; there
would be no time to fix my car, and they would be away for two weeks. Did they
honestly think I would just hang until they got back? Alone. Alone with RINGER?

I eyed the dirt bike,
wondering if I could make my way back to the city on it?

“Oh God! What are you
thinking?” Mel groaned.

I was thinking I was in
deep shit is what I was thinking, and regardless of how I got home tonight, my
objective was clear. I was going to get absolutely shitfaced.

Chapter Seventeen

RINGER

“Well, that’s
strange.”

Steve glanced in the rear-view mirror of
his four-wheel drive. I followed his line of vision.

“What’s that?” I asked, turning to look
back down the street.

“I could have sworn I saw Bluey’s old Land
Cruiser parked back there. What’s he doing in town on a Sunday night?”

“Well, I’m guessing there’s no late night
shopping.” I cast my eye around the desolate main street of Ballan, if you
could call it a street, more like a strip.

“Yeah, not exactly. The only thing you will
find open on a Sunday night is right here.” Steve did a U-turn, swinging around
to park directly in front of a double-storey brick building. The brick work was
painted a deep burgundy that made the neatly penned white lettering ‘The
Commercial’ stand out all the more. “He’s probably inside having a quiet one
before he heads tomorrow.” Steve spoke mainly to himself.

I paused from opening the door. “Why don’t
you come in and say g’day?”

“Nah-nah, better not, the Mrs already has
the shits from me having a few beers yesterday.” Steve looked longingly at the
floodlights that lit the front of the hotel.

“Fair enough,” I said, hopping out of the
car and shutting the door, thanking the heavens above I was my own man. “Thanks
for the lift.”

“Hey, Ringer.” Steve leant over the
passenger seat. “Don’t have a big one, hey? I know this will be your last bout
for a while, but we have a full-on day tomorrow.”

“No worries, watch is synced. Courtesy bus
departs at eleven.” I winked.

Steve nodded, pleased. “Good on ya, mate,
have one for me, and tell that no-good drunk, Bluey, to get home.”

“Will do!” I said, tapping the bonnet of
the car before Steve backed out and sounded a cheerful blast of the horn as he
veered off back down the street.

The muffled sound of Cold Chisel’s ‘Cheap
Wine’ filtered from the hotel. I leant casually on the verandah post, as I took
the singular cigarette from behind my ear and flicked it into my mouth, before
lighting it up and puffing it to life.

So this was Ballan’s ground control, I
thought, looking up at the pub: the place where Farmer John would meet up, and
the local young blokes would converge on a Friday night to chase a bit of skirt.
Seeing as it was Ballan, the male population no doubt outweighed the female, as
any female within their right mind would surely flee this place at the first
given opportunity. Just like Miranda had done.

My brows pinched together at the thought of
her name; it had a way of weaving its way into my skull at any given moment,
and I wasn’t entirely happy about it. I had played with fire today. The line I
had drawn in the sand had become blurry, even more so when I found myself
thinking about Miranda Henry and her perfectly … perky body.

Ah Christ!

I took a deep drag of my cigarette and
flicked it to the bitumen, twisting it into oblivion. Getting out for a bit was
just what I had needed. A chance to clear my head by clouding it into a murky
shambles of alcohol-fuelled good times. Steve was right; I did have a big day
tomorrow, but that was only the beginning of my hell. He thought that there
would be no problem trusting me with his precious darling Miranda; well, I wish
I had as much faith in myself as he did. If nothing else, she would move back
into the house once it was empty, and if she didn’t, I bloody well would.

I had planned to have a quiet word to Steve
tomorrow about getting her car up and running again. I knew it was out of line,
but he couldn’t really hold her prisoner for two weeks till he got back from
Wahroo. I would have strangled her by then. No, I just had to reason with him,
regardless of her being his little girl; he couldn’t force her to stay, and
that was obvious. As we all knew, as soon as the Mazda was up and running
again, she would be nothing but a trail of dust. I smiled at the thought as I
made my way to the Commercial door and entered through the barroom.

For a Sunday it was packed; clearly there
really wasn’t anything better to do on a Sunday night but drink to forget that
they lived in Ballan. Not that I could blame them. The dusty nothing that
surrounded the town made me almost wistful for Onslow … almost.

Still, you would never have to fight your
way to the bar on a Sunday in Onslow. Yet here I was in Ballan, sliding past
people, a few young blokes spruced up with their polished RM Williams belt
buckles, downing a few Bundys. A pretty little brunette tucked her elbows in
and smiled coyly as I slid past her. I had a height advantage over most, and
yet I couldn’t see Bluey as I pushed through and anchored myself to the bar. I
caught the eye of the burly, balding barman, motioned to the VB tap and held up
one finger, reaching for my wallet in my back pocket. He nodded with
understanding and grabbed a pot glass with his chubby fingers. I was somewhat
disappointed there wasn’t some buxom beauty swanning around behind the bar—I
could deal with a bit of a distraction—and when the barman bent over revealing
his hairy butt crack, well, that was definitely not the kind I had in mind.

“Say, you haven’t seen Bluey around, have
you?” I asked, exchanging money for my beer.

“You won’t catch him in here tonight; he
and his daughter are heading to Wahroo in the morning for the cattle auction.”

Okay, a no would have sufficed.

I masked my smirk by sipping my beer; it
was so like a small-town barman to relay a life story.

Steve must have gotten it wrong, unless
Bluey was having some kind of romantic rendezvous in town, something I’m sure
the barman would know in great detail if I had been emotionally invested in
caring.

I all but choked mid-sip when a hefty
wallop hit my back.

“Here, son, take my seat: I’m heading.”

I turned to see a sun-beaten Farmer John
tip his pot glass over on the bar, nod his head at the barman, then at me, as
he slid from his stool.

Score!

With much appreciation, I accepted what
appeared to be the best seat in the house: my back leaning against the corner
wall, my beer within reach from the bar. This was me for the night, perfect
vantage point to take in the local entertainment. A rowdy pool showdown with
some young boozed-up locals, the typical cluster of primped chicks walking
awkwardly in their blistered heels, stollies in hand, and bags under their
arms. A group weaved their way towards the ladies’ toilets together. Why do
they do that? I wondered. Oh, to be a fly on the wall.

After surveying the scene, I soon
discovered it wasn’t unlike that of any other pub; the smell of desperation was
rampant in the local meat market of singledom. Boys with their mates, caked on
aftershave, dressed in their Sunday-best denim. Girls with thickly layered
mascara, straightened hair and fake tan, all wanting to be noticed. Whispers
and glances from the girls, rough housing and hollering amongst the boys. I
lazily nursed my beer, motioning for another as I finished off the dregs. With
each fresh delivery, I soon discovered that this would be the highlight of my
night, and the hairy-arsed barman was going to be my new best friend. Boredom
wasn’t something I was going to escape easily until I noticed a whispered
gathering, and glances my way.

Hello?

A group of four friends all nursing their
raspberry Vodka Cruisers with straws were all sniggering comparatively and
elbowing their blonde friend. I lifted my eyes from my beer and they all turned
in a fit of giggles.

I smiled; would they ever know how
incredibly easy it is? You simply get up, walk over and talk to a guy. It was
never really more complicated than that and just as I silently mused, two of
the pack got up from their seats and walked over to the bar, squeezing in next
to me, yet pretending I wasn’t there.

“Two more Cruisers, thanks, Merve,” called
out the blonde, before casually turning to me and acting as if she had only
just discovered my presence.

“Hi,” she said, accompanied by a
high-wattage smile.

“Hi.” I nodded my head.

Her shorter, dark-haired friend craned her
neck around to see me.

“You’re not from here, hey?” she yelled
out.

I set my beer back on the bar top with an
air of amusement. “Is it that obvious?”

“Um, yeah, just a bit.” Short and dark
snorted.

“And here I was trying to blend in.” I
smiled. “Guess it’s not working.”

The doe-eyed blonde chewed on her straw,
and shook her head. “Don’t try and fit in, you’re much better off if you don’t,”
she said coyly.

“Dude! What the fark!” a voice shouted.

One of the pool players stumbled into the
girls in an effort to get near the bar with his mate.

“Shorry, Ladiesh.” He tipped his
non-existent hat to them.

His mate laughed and said, “Man you are totally
fucked!”

“I am a pool CHAMPION!” He lifted his hands
to the sky as if speaking to the gods.

“Yeah, all right, Rory, keep it down,” said
Merve the barman, as he filled up their empty pots.

Rory dramatically cupped his hand over his
mouth. “Shorry, Merve,” he whispered … well, as quietly as a drunk could
whisper, that is.

The two extra bodies wedged in at the bar
only forced to bring the blonde closer, my brows lifting as her hand rested on
my jeaned thigh so she could balance.

I offered her my hand. “Ringer.”

A crease pinched between her brow as if
wondering if I was serious before taking my hand. “Jenny.”

She smiled. I smiled. Suddenly my whole
evening was looking up, until I overheard the not-so-hushed whispers of Rory
the pool champion that snapped my attention.

“Hey, Jools, see that Henry girl’s back in
town.”

“Oh yeah, fuck, what’s her name?”

“Miranda.” I spoke lowly into my beer as I
sipped.

Fuckwits!

“Sorry?” said Jenny.

“Oh no, nothing.” I smiled in good humour,
my eyes ticked over her shoulder at Dumb and Dumber.

“Miranda!” Rory clicked his finger. “Max’s
hot sister.”

“Ugh! She’s not that hot,” said Jenny’s
friend.

“Do you know her?” I asked, causing all
eyes to land on me.

“Um, yeah. She’s a total fucking bitch.”

Jenny winced as if embarrassed by her
friend’s outburst. “Yeah, we went to school with her.”

Rory’s mate leant heavily on the bar. “I
heard she got some modelling contract in Paris and that’s why she left,” he
said conspiratorially.

“Oh please, everyone knows it’s because she
was pregnant; everyone knows she was whoring around, that’s why she got sent
away.”

My brows lowered as something stirred
within me. Miranda Henry wasn’t exactly my favourite person in the world, but
hearing her be called a whore got my back up. I went to say something and felt
Jenny’s hand back on my thigh.

“The real reason she got sent away,” she
said lowly, “is because of the accident.”

I leant closer, intrigued by what Jenny was
saying. “What accident?”

But before she could answer, a shrill burst
of laughter sounded from across the room that caused us all to take notice; my
eyes shifted towards the sound, the sound that instinctively made my blood run
cold.

“Oh, my God. Speak of the fucking devil,”
said Jenny’s friend.

And as there was a shift in the crowded
room, there she was, drink in hand, sitting on a sofa. Miranda Henry.