I put four slices of bread in the toaster and started putting my supplies away.
Freezer first. Bread, then the sausages, packed around the crap Willy had left behind when he’d died, including some mystery meat in a Glad bag, and a packet of peas that had fused into a solid lump. I should throw them out. Maybe tomorrow. If I wake up.
The toast popped, and I slathered it with margarine and a thick layer of Vegemite, took a bite, and washed it down with a swig straight from the rum bottle.
“Ahhh. Fuck yeah. Now, we’re talkin’.”
I pulled the leftover cash from my jeans and dumped it on the dining table. Paying cash was smart. Can’t track cash, especially this cash—Bob’s laundered money. And I was using it to keep me hidden from Bob himself. Funny, that.
Paying cash had been a pain in the ass, though. The damn grocery store had nothing but self-checkouts, which I’d never laid eyes on before in my life. Whatever happened to checkout chicks? Some pimply teenager had sorted me out in the end, but the way he kept looking at me made me fucking nervous.
Same story at Thirsty Camel. All I wanted was Bundy Rum. Would’ve bought ten bottles if the idiot behind the counter hadn’t made such a bloody hoo-ha over nobody using cash anymore. He even needed a calculator to work out my change.
Damn world was getting dumber every day.
As I ate, I shoved the tens and twenties back into the duffel bag with the other bricks of cash I’d stolen and put the bag back in Willy’s sideboard cupboard.
I’d never thought having loads of cash on hand would make me sweat. It sure as hell had when I’d hauled it from the eastern outstation to my hideout on Koolaroo. From there, I’d loaded the cash and all my supplies into the truck I’d stolen from those Henderson idiots a few months back.
Dumb shits probably hadn’t even noticed it was gone yet. They ain’t never gonna find it either. Not after the way it went up in smoke once I’d finished with it. A smile worked its way across my face.
The smile didn’t last, though. Thinking about the truck made me think about Razor. He was a mighty fine horse, and it pissed me off that I’d had to let him go. But I couldn’t take him with me. I just hoped I’d left enough blood on his saddle to sell my story. I still had a scab over the cut I’d made on my forearm to drip that blood. I’d smeared enough to make my dipshit sons think something bad had happened.
They probably figured I’d fallen off Razor.
I ain’t never fallen off a horse in my life.
I’d fallen off the wagon plenty of times, though.
I took another long pull from the rum bottle.
My guts went sideways halfway through my second piece of toast. Damn cancer was reminding me it hadn’t gone anywhere. Like I needed reminding. Damn pain kept me awake most nights.
On the TV, something exploded on NCIS. I watched the scene, ate, and tried not to think about how many more Vegemite toasts I’d get in me before the Reaper did his job.
I’d lost weight since I’d been here. Willy’s T-shirt moved on me like the thing was a tent. Willy had been a big bloke even at the end. Not surprising given the junk he’d eaten and the fact that he hadn’t done jack shit all day.
I was lucky I’d never gotten around to clearing out his stuff. It had made leaving Koolaroo easier. All I’d needed was the clothes on my back, because everything else was here. I’d originally planned to stay in the hideout on Koolaroo until I up and died. But after three days in that cave with them stupid hand paintings, I’d gotten sick of digging holes to take a shit. Then I remembered this place. At least here I had a real dunny and a bed.
Willy’s clothes smelled like laundry powder and not like him anymore. That was both a relief and a disappointment, and I wasn’t sure what to do with that.
Google said weight loss was to be expected with my kind of cancer. When I’d tried to find out how much, it hadn’t given me a straight answer. Then again, I was no good with computers. Every time I’d tried using the one in Declan’s office, the dumb bastard had turned up and made the whole thing impossible.
I finished my toast, tore open a pack of Tim Tams, and groaned out loud at the first bite. A chocolate biscuit had never tasted so damn good.
I drank more rum and ate more Tim Tams as I watched the end of NCIS. They got the bad guy. They always did on those shows. It was never that easy in Winton, though.
Damn hard when the cop was the bad guy.
I turned off the TV and thought about calling it a night. But the pain was still gnawing at my guts, and until the rum took the edge off, sleep wasn’t happening.
I pulled the notepad across the table toward me. The bottom edge of the foolscap pages was curling up. I’d bought three of these notepads at the shop on my way here, and I was halfway through the second pad. Maybe I should’ve paid a bit more and bought proper notepads.
After all, the notes on these blue-lined foolscap pages were going to change history.
Bob Ackerman’s history, anyway.
Every page I’d written so far was folded square and put into the wooden Chivas box on the sideboard cabinet behind me.