Wonder Valley: Murder Down Under

By Rhys Stalba-Smith

"The boots walking across the boards were slow, methodical, searching…" 

 

Thirty bodies.
Thirty reasons for guilt.
Thirty years to wait for the truth.

It was never just a kidnapping…

 

It's been years since ex-detective Will Davidson investigated anything other than an empty bottle. Grieving the death of his wife, he's spent years drinking away his sorrow.
Covering up his secret…

 

But his past comes clawing back when the death of his father brings him home to the rural town he escaped as a teen. 

Home to the infamous Wonder Valley Massacre of the sixties, Nowhey is a town that has been ignoring its past for too long.

 

When a new batch of bodies begins appearing, Senior Sergeant Pete Davidson does everything in his power to protect everyone he loves.

Until his apparent suicide.

 

Then the next kidnapping occurs.

 

As the bones of the massacre grasp for him, Will can't help but get caught in the storm thirty years in the making.

He may have retired, but this isn't just another investigation, this was his father. 

And his father had discovered something big.
A breath taking secret.
Something that his father's death was only the beginning of…

 

The true crime wasn't the thirty bodies of the commune being discovered…
It was that the real secret had only just begun.

 

The third novel of Rhys Stalba-Smith's Murder Down Under series is an unputdownable thriller that will leave you gasping for breath and gripping your book in awe. Crime has never been this close to home or this dangerous. The dark psychological thriller is a page turner not to be missed. Get it before it's buried along with the bodies…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rhys Stalba-Smith
• Release date: Oct 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9798223217978

Rhys Stalba-Smith

Born in Adelaide, South Australia, Rhys has always been infatuated with stories and storytelling. After years of reading and scribbling with some form of practice, he studied the craft of writing at university and millions of words later, he’s come to understand that he still doesn’t know much about it. Now living in France, he remembers home by writing about where he came from, the characters that live there, and the places he’s seen on the vast island that is Australia. His ideas, be they sci-fi, crime, and every horrifying thing in between, often come while out hiking or taking public transport. His debut work The Stretch has been followed by his sophomore work A Killer Among Us, soon to be released.

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Rhys Stalba-Smith

WONDER VALLEY

Copyright © 2021 by Rhys Stalba-Smith

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

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MAILING LIST

I

TO THE HOUND, BLOOD IS GASOLINE

CHAPTER ONE

Andrew jutted his tongue out to the side and looked at his signature, it was an ugly scrawl. He turned from the paperwork with a frown and sipped his cold instant coffee. Started running the numbers again.

There had to be something in it other than shearing more sheep. There had to be a way to protect this place other than what he’d just signed off on. Well, he’d made one little assurance for that, but it always came back to the contract. Always.

Sam had been right in telling him to keep an eye on Dagger. He’d drastically changed since their talks. Since he got the contract a month ago.

Andrew dared another look at his signature. Second thoughts. Dagger’d practically stopped talking to him since it all and had become secretive even to him. He looked appeared to want to chat with Andrew this morning, then thought better of it when he saw the kid.

Andrew kicked back in the chair and sighed, wished he was out there instead of here. He stretched his stiff neck and sore body and rubbed his hands together, stifled a yawn with a fist. Their little girl was six months now. Sleeping by herself mostly.

He finished the cold coffee, the taste racing around his mouth then down his throat. Looked out the window from his small office at the end of the livestock shed and heard the buzz of shears vibrating through the corrugated wall. How many would they do today? It’d never be enough. Had to be more, that was all that mattered. Five hundred would be good. Double yesterday maybe. If they were gonna prepare for the inevitable, it needed to be more. Frieda needed more.

Andrew stood, went over to the window and opened it. Forty degrees out but a bit of breeze was better than nothing. Better than the sweat, sheep’s piss and shitted wool in the air. Only a few had been nicked this time, that was good. Better team this season from Nowhey.

Thinking about the men shearing made him crush his teeth together, some of those men Dagger had vouched for could shear, but—he couldn’t explain it. He sat back heavily in the chair, wondering if he should’ve done it. Should’ve signed the paper. Started the commune, met Frieda, had a kid with her, bought the land. It could go on. All of it more stressful than it should have been. They were a commune for fuck’s sake. Living off the land and each other’s goodwill, how was it things he’d been trying to escape had followed him? They barely had expenditures. Clothes were self made. They were a commune.He rubbed his eyes with knuckles until he saw stars.

They were a commune, with an individual within them,

Andrew sat up in his chair. That’s what it was. They were all here together barre one of them. And one person acting alone was only suspected if they were suspicious, but to everyone else other than Andrew, they weren’t.

Screaming split the air. A sheep’s squeal cutting through the tin walls. Nicked.

Andrew swore, took the rifle from the corner and ran out. All the shearers had stopped and were gathering down the line. In the middle. The young kid, River, thirteen years old.

Andrew pushed through the men, some jeering and pointing, a few laughing. The young boy on his knees, trying to hold the sheep as blood poured from its throat. The wool turning red. The shears had caught the artery running up the neckline. The boy had been pushing too hard. Dug in. The shears buzzing around on the arm, clattering along the floor. He called for someone to stop the generator.

Andrew pushed the boy back and loaded a round into the chamber. The men cheering now, laughing at the boy. Shock on his face and silence in his opened mouth. Andrew stomped a foot down on the sheep’s neck and fired.

It stopped moving, bleeding out to death without it’s brain.

The crowd fell silent with the blast. It echoed out of the shed and off the dock, down into the valley. Andrew looked at them all. It’s not something to bloody cheer about, he said. This is good sheep here.

River popped his cherry though, someone called. Lookit him, like he pissed himself, another said. The men laughed.

"It’s a life, Andrew said. They silenced. If you come ‘ere to work you gotta respect that." He was looking at the men Dagger was now friends with.

Settle down Andy, it’s only first fuck up we’ve had all week.

Andrew turned to the voice opposite him, behind the boy. Two hooded eyes staring out of a tan face. Dagger. We’re grateful for the workers we can get out here, he said. Good men.

Not at all what I meant, Andrew said to the crowd. It doesn’t need to be a show. And there’s no need for that language. He turned back to Dagger, the man smiling at him. He checked his watch. Alright shears down, he said. We’re done for the day. Head home, I’ll deal with this.

The men dispersed and the air thinned, became fresh. The claustrophobia of sweat and blood had made it even more uncomfortable in the shed. Boiling tin above not helping. His shirt itching at him and sweat in his pits, he took his hat off and wiped his forehead.

River sat on the boards, staring at the dead sheep. It’s tongue turning dry against the wood. Blood staining hands and shirt.

It’s not nice is it, Andrew said. River nodded. It’s never nice.

It was an accident, I swear, he said. I was just doing what Dagger said. I been watching him all week. Seeing the shearers and stuff. He said you gotta dig in at the neck cause otherwise it doesn’t separate the wool right.

Andrew pursued his lips, watched the last of the men leaving distractedly. Engines starting and utes heading off. The shears hadn’t even been taken apart to clean. He was frowning, not at all what he wanted either. He felt eyes on him, he turned to the boy but found him still staring at the sheep. He then turned back to the leaving cars. Dagger watching from his own vehicle, then with a nod, drove off.

Don’t worry about it, Andrew said to River. He felt like a target was on him. It was an accident, as you said. I shoulda been out here with you anyway. You’re too young to be working sheep without proper training.

But I was dead set trying, River pleaded. He wiped his hands on his shorts, great red streaks staining the cotton.

I know you were mate, but some things are just the way they are. I shoulda been helping ya, and I shouldna put you with Dagger. The boy was shaking his head, still watching the sheep. Flies starting to gather. Come on. We’ll string this up for butchering tomorrow morning. No point wasting it. I’ll put a bucket under it in the shed overnight.

They grabbed a set of feet each and carried it down the line. Andrew had made sure to build a small room at the end of the shed for whenever such things happened. They did their proper butchering down at the yard, but it wasn’t always easy to carry a body that far. They entered the double lined brick room, built into the small hill beside their shearing shed. It kept median temperature, good enough for solving a problem later. He took a length of rope from the wall and bound the rear feet, dragged the body to the middle of the room, and in a quick motion hung it up on the hook. He took a bucket and placed it under the head. Throat’s already open enough, he said. River nodded in reply.

You ever had a beer? Andrew asked. River shook his head. Another first today then. He smiled at the boy, who only stared at him blankly. Carn, gesturing with his head. He took the mop and bucket of water standing guard by the door and pushed it along the timber as he led River back down the shed to his small office. He kept a cold box of home brew by the door. Most of the case held new beer now, bottled yesterday, but he dug deeper for the older ones for them.

Thank you, River said.

You’re welcome, he replied. They clinked drinks and drank. Andrew watched the valley in awe, it was after five and the sun was still burning fierce. This late in the season it’d be up for another five hours. And with the grass yellowed and dry, a fire could rip through in seconds if it had the chance. It only made him pity the sheep and think of the crops, they’d have to water later. Hoped the dam wasn’t getting too low.

Mr Gatling? River asked.

Andrew nodded to show he was listening.

I’m sorry again.

It’s orright. He almost laughed because of the boy, wishing his problems were as simple as fear. It’s was an accident, he said.

"It’s just I can’t unsee it, ya know? It was going fine. My first sheep. Body all good, majority of it not too shabby, least mostly one piece. Just the neck left. I felt a bit nervous cause ya know, the men during the week had talked about it. Accidents like this. So I remembered what Dagger said, an’ I pressed in hard as he said…" The boy was acting it out as he spoke. Then eventually trailed to silence, not speaking his last words.

It’s okay, Andrew said, he put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. It’s just one of those lessons you learn, just not a nice one.

But I killed it, he said.

"Nah mate. You didn’t. I did that. And it was a lot quicker my way than letting the poor thing be and the men laugh."

It wasn’t funny, River murmured.

No. Was all Andrew could say. He agreed again with the boy, took his hat off to wipe his forehead again. It’s never funny. But when you work in a job for so long you sometimes get used to things. Not all these men would’ve killed a sheep in their careers, but they all woulda nicked one. Not that nicking leads to killing, but what I’m trying to say is they do it so much they don’t necessarily see ‘em as sheep.

River looked confused.

These men work quickly. Have to, Andrew went on. We got a few thousand in our flock, small compared to most. But a lot of sheep regardless. Day after day, season after season, these men’d shear millions in a lifetime. They become numbers instead of animals by pure exposure. But the jeering doesn’t mean it’s a number and not an animal.

River took large gulps of his beer until he finished it, then burped. Sorry, he said quickly.

Look— Andrew reached for another beer for the boy. Take another one of these and head home. Don’t worry, the walk’ll clear your head. You’ll feel better for it. Tomorrow’s another day. We’ll do some work together, alright?

River nodded and headed off. Andrew watched him until he rounded the bend, the small figure cutting a slow shadow. When he was gone he turned back into his office and swore. Bloody bastard Dagger. Ruining it all. He knew ever since he came with that posse from the city he was bad. Bunch of loudmouths a few years ago, wanting a change. A change his ass. A hideout definitely.

He’d rip up the papers. Bloody bugger it. He’d pass it onto Frieda instead of the commune. She could do what she wanted when she found out the truth.

He opened the cooler box for another beer. One of the new ones had popped its cap and was open, no point wasting it. He took it and threw the lid on his desk. Took a long swig, downed it in one. He put the bottle, plus the other two from before, in his bag. He’d wash ‘em when he got home.

He wandered back onto the shed landing, again watching the valley. Sat on the edge and hung his legs off. A stunning view to work in front of. Took a bit of work getting the few thousand sheep up here but, once they were shorn they wandered back down to the bottom. There wasn’t much natural protection where they were so a few sheds had been built. In spring they sat with the dogs and watched for foxes, rifles ready. He wasn’t a bad shot in the half dark.

He yawned, probably time to get on. Get home, maybe get a nap in before watering. It wasn’t his duty tonight, but he always helped if he could.

Oh shit. He’d forgotten it was the Singing Ceremony today.

He slid off the ledge, better hurry back. He landed on his feet with a stumble. Felt groggy all of a sudden. A sharp pain in his gut. Everything became bright. Something flashed past him on the right. He swung around, looking and shielding his eyes from the harsh sun. He stumbled backwards, tripped over a rock and fell staring at the livestock shed. The corrugated iron roof was blaring sun. He brought his hands up. Turned over to his hands and knees. Something flashed again, this time on his left. He pushed himself standing, dirt gripping his sweating palms. Vertigo looking down at the dam and sheep. The valley. He put his hands out to balance, but nothing was around him. He fell again.

What the hell? His heart pounding. The heat had got to him quick, definitely not the two beers.

The flash again. Heard a squeal. He turned back to the shearing shed. Squinting to see on the landing. The shadows of the dock dancing under the bright roof. His chest became tight, pain in his throat now. Grasping at his flesh.

He kept staring at the landing, now rubbing knuckles into his eyes until he saw white. Opened them again.

The sheep was trotting along the landing on its hind legs, neck lopped sideways and head jangling.

Andrew screamed, turned cold and felt his heart hammering the back of his teeth.

The sheep danced off the ledge. It’s eyes drawing him in. Growing in size and power. It had a cleaver in its hooves.

Andrew couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. He fell to his knees clutching his chest. Watching the sheep come at him. The shadow growing on him. His heart bursting. Pain in his throat constricting. The sheep swung the cleaver high, clicked its head and neck back into place, then brought the knife down in one powerful swipe. Andrew’s heart exploded.

THIRTY YEARS LATER

Pete stared at the ceiling, waiting for his alarm to go off, he’d been up most the night. He still couldn’t understand it, Ralph Wardock’s disappearance made no sense. Along with everything else he’d been looking into of course, it made no sense. None of it. A father of three, been a Nowhey boy since before his parents time. He wouldn’t up and leave. He was under stress with the farm, but no farmer he knew in the area would up and leave like that. Definitely not a Wardock.

But then again he’d thought a lot of things in this life, and a lot of trusts and thoughts in people had been split down the middle, right or wrong. When the bull was backed in a corner, it charged at anyone.

The alarm rang, Country Life on the AM band came on. A bit of Waylon Jennings playing in the morning. He got up, turned the volume low but not off, started waking up. He hummed lowly as he went through to he and Marie’s bathroom. Smiled at his grizzled face then bared his teeth and gums. The humming turned into mumbled words. Began shaving, leaning over the sink so his bristles weren’t too hard to clean up. He sang as he lifted his chin.

He could see through to Marie’s bedroom, actually their bedroom, he’d been sleeping in their son’s old room. Her leg was cut above the covers, pitched at an angle on a pillow. She’d wake any moment too. He pushed all he’d been thinking about overnight out of his mind, and returned his attention to the radio. Listening to the tune. His words gaining confidence. She’d woken to his snoring at a drop of a hat over they years, but his singing? Forget about it. She was out.

He flicked his undies into the wash basket and hopped into the shower, letting the chorus boom out. He gurgled water and took his toothbrush as a microphone, began scrubbing and washing his face. In and out of the shower as the second verse came round, but the singing was lost on him when he came face to face with Marie. She stood in the doorway, her nighty hanging off her body in the same rumpled way she’d slept in it.

Pete Davidson you are a menace, she said. Your voice is terrible and even makes magpies cry. She smiled. But you tell me one more time, so I understand, she said with the music. They sang together.

She got in and they shared a quick kiss in the swap. Pete returned to their room and took his clothes from the sideboard. Dressed while he whistled. The song came to a close as he slid his boots on, took his hat and headed to the kitchen.

When Marie entered he’d had the pan heating and coffee percolating, he dropped a few rashes of bacon onto the hot iron and listened to the sizzle. Added some eggs for company. The radio was whispering in the corner.

"You don’t wanna have too many of them, your shirts not getting any bigger. Any tighter and people will think you are a pig in costume," Marie said. She kissed him again on the cheek and took two cups out for their coffee.

Funny, Pete said. But you’re a bit late on the joke.

Mmhmm, Marie agreed. You said that three belt holes ago.

Pete grinned and he pushed the eggs around, breaking the yolks around the rashes of bacon. Turned the radio up as the weather report came in. Another blinder today for those in the centre, the reporter said. Heatwave continuing for the western, south, and mid-eastern states. Keep the fans on and shades low. Pete transferred the rashers and eggs to their plates. Rains are meant to be on their way, but don’t hold your breath as this drought keeps the clouds at bay. He sat across from Marie and they began eating, chewing slowly. Pete cracking pepper and salt on his eggs. He sipped his coffee. Wheat prices are still climbing, the reporter went on. But who’s getting a good yield is another question altogether.

‘Think I’ll do a bit of a run’round today, Pete said. Check on the farmers as well as looking into Ralph. Marie nodded while she ate. Feel a few of ‘em are already on the thin, hopefully no breaking points yet. Don’t want ‘em to feel the squeeze too much. Let ‘em know the town of Nowhey still loves ‘em. Pete ran his hand over his clean face. Maybe see Warren at the bank, might be able to get a freeze on repayments for the worst hit."

Whatever you think dear, Marie replied. She paused with her fork mid-air. You think that’s what got Ralph?

Pete chewed his mouthful before replying. I hope not. But I been up all night thinking about it. It’s not like him I can think. Or his family. But…

I know. She ate her mouthful. Stress does funny things to us all.

Pete grunted. Downed his coffee in one and was halfway through standing up when he noticed Marie was paused again. You okay?

Pete, she began.

Immediately the tone put him on edge. What? he asked, looking at his shirt for any signs of egg or bacon.

No it’s not, she said.

He could see she was thinking, erring whether to ask him something. Well? he said, staying in the air.

She put her fork down. "It’s all well and good to help our people, and I know it’s your job, but have you called William yet? You’re already overdue. And he is most definitely ours."

Oh, he said, wishing he had his cup of coffee to hide in now. That.

Yes that. Your son, Marie said. He’s been having a tough time, and well, last week was his birthday. Tomorrow will be Elizabeth’s. I think a call from his—

He made it plenty clear what he thought of me last time, Pete cut in, wishing Marie’s face couldn’t pin him the way it did.

He was, and probably still is, grieving, Marie said, stressing her words. We all were. And you know, sometimes the closest families are honest to the point of fault.

Well as far as fault goes, I think I was in the right.

And that’s been the Pete Davidson I’ve known my whole life, Marie said. Never wrong. But anyone else other than your son and you would’ve swallowed that pride of yours and made amends. William deserves the same.

He assaulted and verbally abused—

He deserves the same, she pushed.

Followed by a—

Oh save your cod swallop, Marie snapped. Her temper flared and the rolled up paper beside her looked heavier and meaner than it should have. I’ve been nice and patient, and I’ve been encouraging and compassionate, but now Peter Hawthorn Davidson I’m ten shades of pissed off! You’ll call your son by the end of today or you’ll be sleeping with Bounder in the kennel tonight. Alright?

Pete began to defend himself, the indignation and accusations tripping up his words.

"And I don’t care if you’re Senior Sergeant of Nowhey police station. In this relationship you’re one half to me, then our boy. Because of that you’re twice as late. So shut your yap unless you’re finishing your bacon."

Pete sat heavily and stabbed bacon onto his fork and mopped up the egg with his last corner of bread. His mind abuzz in frustration, prickling thoughts and sharp words. They ate in silence. He’d get her, he thought. Then he smiled.

Don’t you say it, Marie said, the threat in the depths of her throat as she finished her own breakfast.

Say what? Pete asked.

"You damn well know what. Don’t. You’ve put me in a mood now for my morning, probably ruined craft with the girls."

Dunno what you’re on about, Pete said. He stood and pulled his belt higher, made a show of tightening it and adjusting himself.

Don’t.

You just look—

I’m warning you.

Pete took his keys from the hook, gave them a jangle so Bounder would wake up, and opened the door. You look mighty sexy when you’re angry.

Pete Davidson! Marie stood with quick grace, her curlers bouncing around. You get here and give this gal a peck on the cheek.

Pete chuckled and went and gave his wife a kiss on the mouth. What the hell, he said. It’s a Friday. She rolled her eyes and tugged his ear lobe.

Go on and get gone, she said.

Pete stepped out onto the verandah and whistled for Bounder. The slow thumps of the old Blue Heeler came around the side, and the dog waltzed into Pete’s arms, tail wagging and tongue lolling about. Morning bud, woke you this time, Pete said. Times’re changing. The dog wagged its tail harder and tried to lick his face. Come’on, we gotta day out together.

They walked down the steps and Pete unlocked his truck door. The patrol vehicle was a four wheel drive, the front passenger seat had been Bounder’s for the past twelve years. He used to jump into it, now with his arthritis, he was lifted.

There we go, Pete said, patting his dog. Riding up front as usual. I reckon one of those pastries at Rosie’s got your name on it. Tail wagged again.

Pete walked around to his side and hopped in. The sun was poking up on the corrugated roofs lining the street, his seat already warming. He turned the engine over and turned the dial up on the radio, Country Life still broadcasting for the next hour. He turned the CB on and checked in with Wardy at the station, asked if he wanted anything from the café. Coffee and cake wouldn’t go amiss, buzzed back.

Pete shifted into gear and reversed out of the driveway, headed for the centre. The Davidson’s lived on the edge of town, their backyard hard up against the wheat fields stretching into the horizon. The town had been there for generations, huge influx of people who’d come on the boat from the city. It had always been a hard won farming town. Then before the Second World War, the Mannum to Whyalla pipeline was built. It brought more than water to the small village of Nowhey then, a boom of people made it swollen until it was a town. Some of the immigrants who’d built the pipeline returned, and years later, their families also. Nowhey was a place for new beginnings and opportunity, and in the late fifties became an even grander version.

The short lived dream of the Wonder Valley Commune was started and ended in the space of five years by its founder Andrew Gatling. The end of which would haunt the citizens of Nowhey until it was forcibly forgotten. But none of this went through Pete’s mind as he drove into town, not even the recent set of events were on his mind.

What was going through Pete’s mind, as the chorus of the tune he hadn’t been listening to moved into the bridge, was his son William.

Their relationship hadn’t always been the best, but they’d made it work. Before Bounder had come along Will had sat in the front with him as they drove to work. He was doing his studies to become an officer in the country. Pete had been proud of him, stout and resilient, he refused his father’s help. Earning it. Studying hard. A true Nowhey native.

That was until the letter arrived and the results were in. It wasn’t Nowhey station he was assigned to, it was Adelaide Central department of Investigation. His boy hadn’t been studying to work with him, he’d been studying to get away. From him, the town, it’s people, it’s trades and opportunities. He’d decided at some point he didn’t want the country life. The watching of seasons and crops, or the speculating of yields and rainfalls. He wanted the simplicity of city living. Marie had understood. He supposed all mothers had to in a way. She’d helped him even, he found out. But to Pete, it had simply been he didn’t want them. He returned every few months at first, then twice a year, then at Christmas or Easter, then phone calls only Marie took and he pretended not to listen for.

Then Will’s tragedy happened. His wife got herself killed. A jealous lover or something. It seemed like city problems to him. But Will’d been quick to talk then. Funeral arrangements, dates, Pete had barely known his son had a girlfriend, let alone a daughter in-law. Obviously they’d not been invited to anything official. Marie understood then too.

So when they drove down to help with the arrangements, spent all week with him at his apartment while he tried to understand the unravelling of his life, Pete felt guilty at the tinge of satisfaction he felt at the situation. This city life. But it was on the day of the funeral he put his foot in his mouth.

He still admonished that he’d said nothing wrong. But deep down, deep deep down, he knew. He knew he should’ve kept his mouth shut. All the years of hurt and unsaid words should’ve stayed kept away. It wasn’t the day for it. The churning in his guts as they drove, the ice as he dressed in his suit, he should’ve stayed silent. But Pete got sick and tired of being introduced and seen as some bumpkin hick living in the same town the Wonder Valley massacre had occurred. So when someone asked him about country life, and he saw Will was listening, he didn’t even feel bad about saying the words. Not one bit.

Yeah it’s orright. We’re good people, ya know. Lookin’ out for each other. No strangers. None-a this woulda happened up there, I can tell you, he said, gesturing at the wake in general.

Pete was about to continue on in his stupidity to the shocked woman, when the fist of his son’s left hand collided with his face. Then he was falling sideways. Slowly racing towards the maroon carpet. He woke to see Marie frowning down at him, while his best friend and his son’s ex-best friend held him back. Will was still trying to get at him on the ground. The shocked lady he’d been talking to was with Marie, helping to take care of him. In the end, the paramedics were called because his jaw was broken, hanging loosely in his skin and swelling like a balloon. William had broken his hand too.

As he was loaded into the ambulance, Marie glared at him. Hoped that it was painful and that he felt as embarrassed as she was. You bloody well deserved it, she said. He couldn’t have agreed more.

He rubbed his jaw absent mindedly as he pulled in at the cafe. A clean break the doctor’d said. Who’d you piss off to get this wallop? She asked.

My son, he replied. At his wife’s funeral. The doctor didn’t