Page 90 of Down the Track


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LANA:

Don’t say it.

TYSON:

Don’t say what?

LANA:

Whatever it is you’re about to say.

TYSON:

Thing is, Lana, I like that you’re bossy. I like that you’re always telling me what I can and can’t do; it makes it all the more fun to do whatever the heck I want. Like now.

TYSON:

[getting on knees]

I l—

Far out. Hux had spent the last day and a half either staring at his murder board or trying to get back on track with his revisions, and he couldn’t decide which of the two was frustrating him more. He had to stop reading before he had a tantrum that would echo not only around the donger, but out in the shed, across the airstrip, through the bustling (okay, sleepy) downtown of Yindi Creek and all the way up to the Gulf, but also obliterate all his notes on the murder board.

‘No, no, absolutely no,’ he said aloud to himself. ‘Tyson getting a happy ending is not on the agenda. How many times do I have to say it?’

‘You sure you’re not shooting yourself in the foot there, Hux?’

Hux spun in his chair to frown at Phaedra.

‘Clueless Jones has clothed and fed me and paid for my house,’ he said. ‘And his inability to get the girl is a major part of his appeal for all the readers out there. It keeps them reading, in fact.’ Which was, after all, the purpose of writing a series: keeping the reader hooked and wanting the next instalment of both a new whodunnit to solve and another round of will-they-won’t-they to agonise over.

Possum raised one eyelid, surveyed the situation, decided it didn’t involve snacks, and closed it again.

‘Oh, I’m not talking about Clueless Jones,’ she said. She had her arms folded and was looking at him with pity; like she couldn’t believe he could even hold down a job, that’s how obtuse he was.

‘What are you talking about, then?’

‘Let me spell it out for you, sunshine. Some bloke got his heart broke and now he’s a total scaredy cat when it comes to making a move on a chick he is clearly still hung up on, because he’s got childhood trauma about people going missing from his life, especially women, and while that’s all totally understandable and tragic and whatever, it is no reason to spend the rest of his life living vicariously through his fictitious alter ego. And we all know that bloke is you, mate.’

TYSON: [speechless]

Hux frowned at her. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have told you that I bumped into Jo out at Corley Station.’

‘Bumped into,’ said Phaedra. ‘Is that what you call a cosy overnight camp-out?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t want to talk about this.’

‘Fine. Shout at your script some more, see if I care.’

‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I can’t look at it. It’s making steam come out of my ears.’

‘Work on your murder board some more, then. You’re in a bad mood, Hux, and it’s messing with my mojo.’

It was true. He was in a bad mood. He was unsettled and angsty and Phaedra was absolutely totally right that he’d been that way ever since his not-so-cosy overnight camp out.

With a sigh, he turned to his whiteboard. By now, it had so many questions and arrows and post-it notes covering it, he reckoned he had enough material to write six crime novels, if that’s what his aim had been, but he was still no closer to coming up with a credible story to explain what in hell had happened to mystery man Dave.

The phone rang and Phaedra ignored it the way she’d been ignoring it all week. ‘It’ll be for you,’ she said.