AllFreeNovel
Share Us
CHAPTER NINE
KEN DIED AT three and, swallowing a sob, Emma conscientiously wrote it in her notes. Marty had collected the stretcher from where he’d left it by the door and together they gently lifted the frail body onto it, Emma wrapping the quilt around it this time, as if he could still feel the cold.
They carried him to the chopper and secured the stretcher, then walked together back into the hut, knowing they had to check for any papers he might have, to dispose of any food, blow out the lanterns, and if possible secure the hut against any vandals that might make their way out here.
But the stress of the vigil, their sadness at the old man’s death, and Marty’s story had churned up too many emotions and in search of relief they turned to each other, clasping each other in a vice-like grip.
Their kiss spread fire through their bodies as they melded together, feeding the hunger that had been raging between them for too long.
Had it gone on forever, or was it only a matter of minutes before Marty eased himself away from Emma?
‘Later?’ he whispered.
‘Later,’ she replied, and it sounded like a promise.
He took one of the lamps outside to where he knew Ken had kept a meat-safe in the shade of a lean-to, and emptied it of cheese and some bread that had been there long enough to be breeding different types of mould.
Emma had found garbage bags and had handed one to him, so he emptied the weird metal contraption with the wet bags hung over it, and returned to the shack to find other perishables.
‘I’ve put together all the papers I can find,’ Emma told him, for all the world as if this was just another day, another job and the word ‘later’ had never been said. Twice. ‘There should be something there about next-of-kin if he had anyone.’
She paused, then added, frowning slightly, ‘Should we take his clothes? There’s not much and most of it should be thrown away.’
‘I think leave them. Someone will come out to see to things out here.’
‘Then I’ll sweep the floor to leave it tidy,’ she said, and had to smile.
‘Putting off the later?’ he teased, coming closer to her to touch her cheek.
‘No, I’m not!’ she snapped. ‘Now get out while I sweep.’
He walked down to the creek, pausing where he’d sat with Ken in days gone by, then looked back at the shack.
Had Ken been hiding not from people but from life itself?
Was that what he, Marty, was doing—hiding from life, but doing it amongst people, plenty of people so they didn’t realise…?
* * *
Emma cleared what she could from the little shack, sadness for the old man she hadn’t known battling with Marty’s explanation of why he wouldn’t—in his mind couldn’t—do commitment.
Personally, she was certain nurture played a far more important part in a person’s upbringing than nature, but she knew from the way he’d spoken that Marty held a deep, primal fear of physically hurting someone he loved.
She’d done some psychology as part of her medical course, but not enough to know if such a deep-rooted notion could ever be dislodged. Certainly, the love he’d received from Hallie and Pop and the loving support of all his foster family hadn’t driven it away, so possibly not.
And that thought filled her with unutterable sadness…
‘Come on, it’s time to go.’
Marty’s call woke her to the fact they should be moving, and she gathered the little stack of papers she’d collected, and with a last look around the shack headed for the door.
Only to stop, and turn, aware something had caught her eye, yet unable to place it. She looked around, certain she’d seen something that might be important—just a glimpse—turned again and caught it, an early sunbeam catching on glass, high up on the wall—a photo!
She hurried back and lifted it off the nail where it was hanging, not stopping to investigate as Marty already had the engine revving and she knew she had to go.
Blow out the lamp and go…
But once on the chopper, belted in, she had time to wipe the dust of ages off the glass and take a proper look at the picture in her hands.
A photo of a woman—young, and rather beautiful—beautiful in that haunting way as if the image could be labelled sadness.
It was the eyes—the look in them—that gave that impression—a polite half-smile on lovely lips, but such sadness in the heavy-lidded eyes Emma could feel it in her chest, her heart…
She turned it over, looking for a name, but the back was bare. Yet somehow she was sure she knew this woman.
Or did she only know the feeling the woman portrayed?
Nonsense!
Why should she be sad? She had the boys, her father, a job she loved, and she’d made sure over the years to keep her memories of Simon to the happy times.
