“Hi, Dominic.” Eddie buttoned up his cardigan as he reached me. “How’s it going?”
“Horribly,” I said with a grin.
He raised his eyebrows. “Well, you seem happier about it, at least.”
“I think I’ve reached this stoic sense of acceptance,” I said. “Like that famous Roman emperor. Caligula?”
“I think you mean Marcus Aurelius.”
“Oh.” I shrugged. “Same thing, right?”
He looked almost alarmed. “No. Not at all.”
“So, I was thinking,” I said, “that I’d really like to join your local history society.”
His expression lit up. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I mean, the only hobby I have so far is being interviewed by my cat. He hosts a talk show. In my living room.”
“Okaaay...” Eddie blinked a few times. “But yes, please come and join the historical society, because so far it’s just me. And sometimes Red Joe, because I force him.”
“Sounds good.” It really didn’t, but it did sound fractionally better than being interviewed by Frank, who was starting to ask some really uncomfortable questions. Like, ‘What the fuck are you doing with your life, Dominic?’ and ‘Do you think pretending to be interviewed by your cat is a sign of a mental break?’
“Awesome,” Eddie said, and sounded like he actually meant it.
We made plans to catch up tomorrow, and then I waved him off. My grin faded as he walked into the village, and a woman waved at him from her front step. I wanted to be waved at too. Although at this point I’d settle for not being threatened. I wasn’t intimidated—I’d faced situations back in Sydney that were hairier than a ZZ Top tribute band—but I hated being ostracised just because I was an outsider and a copper. Clearly Eddie had made some progress with the outsider thing, but I doubted I’d be given the same chance—not while I was wearing this uniform, at least.
Well, too bad for them that I was a stubborn bastard. I wouldn’t be driven off the island just because they didn’t like me. Natty talked to me, the cat interviewed me, and now I was a member of the Dauntless Island Amateur Historical Society. I was putting down roots in this weird little community, whether they wanted me to or not.
I passed the church and stood out the front of the police station for a moment, admiring the garden. It looked a million times better than I had the day I’d arrived. The cat was waiting for me at the door, tail flicking back and forth.
Fuck yeah. I was going to make this place home if it killed me.
And, just for the record, I would not be staying the hell away from Natty Harper, whatever his brother said. Not when he was by far the best part of my day.
Chapter 8
NATTY
Yard work was harder than I thought it’d be—at least doing it for a week straight was. But I finally straightened up one afternoon, and then looked around and realised I was pretty much finished. The yard looked as neat as it had when Short Clarry had lived here. The cat was even sunning herself on the kitchen step. I’d dragged all the branches out to the front, and asked Robbie Finch if he could bring his cart around and help me move them for twenty bucks. Once that was done, I wouldn’t have to be here everyday. It’d be one day a week tops to keep the place neat. My aching muscles would thank me, but that didn’t explain the sudden unhappy swoop in my gut.
I’d miss Dominic.
Most of the time he was working inside when I was outside—or he was out doing his foot patrols of the village—but he checked in all the time. He asked if I wanted a drink, or a snack, or just wandered out with a plate of toasted sandwiches, which seemed to be the only thing he could cook. When I told him that I didn’t need to work every day now, he looked as disappointed as I felt, but then he smiled and said I could always drop over for a cuppa.
For a few days after finishing up Dominic’s yard I didn’t have any work, but one morning before dawn Katrina Finch knocked on the door and said Robbie was sick, and would I come and work on the farm today? Button John was doing the run to the mainland with Young Harry Barnes, so it was just me. It was hard work too, even though they had a milking machine. Getting a silicon cup on a cow that could sense your inexperience was a challenge—I got knocked onto my arse more than once. And the goats were even worse. Katrina was in a mood too—not with me, given the way she kept glaring at the house and muttering under her breath about Robbie, but it didn’t make for a fun day. I was glad when I finally got the milking done—hours late, but still done—and she went and made the deliveries while I mucked out the shed and then collected the eggs from the chickens’ nesting boxes and packed them carefully into cartons.
I was filthy when I got home, covered from head to toe in dirt and shit. It was lunchtime, and my stomach was growling. I was hungry enough that I wanted omelettes for lunch, stuffed full of capsicum and mushrooms and cheese. Katrina had given me some eggs as well as cash for helping her out today.
I hoped Mum had remembered to eat the sandwiches I’d left out for her for breakfast and wasn’t starving like I was.
I opened the kitchen door. “Mum?”
It took her a moment, but she appeared in the doorway, a faint smile on her face.
“I’m going to make lunch in a minute,” I said. “Did you eat breakfast?”
“Yes,” she said softly, but I didn’t know whether to believe it or not.
