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“It’s, um, just—” Her lower lip quivered. “I can’t face him like this without a warning first… too many memories…”
He moved closer. “I get it. Hey, I get it, okay?”
Her face turned up to his and his heart slammed against his ribs. Tears swam in her eyes. Something inside him cracked open with tenderness. He bent his head, kissed her just beside her ear and whispered, “It’ll be okay,’ before striding towards the house and his bike.
Did he know that? Of course he didn’t. He just couldn’t bear to see her fall apart.
No more than seven minutes later, Solo drew up outside Ted’s shed. It was grey jarrah, worn and beaten by the weather, with bits of farm paraphernalia—old wheels and twisted tractor axles—hammered onto the outside. The large doors were shut. It looked deserted, then Solo saw Ted’s old ute tucked around the back.
A gunshot rang out.
Shit!
He was off the bike in seconds and sprinting, no thoughts, just pure adrenaline.
Another shot.
“Christ.” Solo got to the doors and his fingers, suddenly shaking, dragged a couple of times on the metal handle, before he pushed it roughly open, blinking to adjust to the dimness inside.
There was an eerie stillness. Eyes wide and scanning, Solo advanced slowly. If Ted had shot himself… Christ… the implications were too much to take in, the present moment and the rasp of his amplified breath filling his ears.
Then there was a rustle as a figure moved somewhere in the shadows.
“Ted!” Solo called.
A grunt. Was he injured?
“Ted!” Louder this time.
“What is it, lad?” Solo’s highly tuned ears registered that the voice didn’t sound injured or in pain. Just slightly irritated.
“Ted, are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just needed some quiet time.”
Solo didn’t point out that firing guns was hardly freakin’ quiet time.
His legs almost gave way with the surge of relief, and then, as his eyes took in more, his stomach dropped. His nostrils registered the pungent scent of what—whisky? Mixed with something else, sweeter. Rum?
Anger surged in Solo’s belly. How dare he do that, the selfish old bastard? After all the trouble his family had been to…
He knew to hold himself in check. Advanced slowly, cautiously.
Ted’s bulky frame was slumped in a chair on the far wall. Lined up on the bench in front of him were bottles of alcohol. At least half a dozen.
Solo’s foot squelched into wet straw, then scrunched on broken glass.
He looked at Ted and realised the guy had a gun;he was still holding the fucking gun.
His body brittle, his mind switched into icy professional psychiatrist mode. Smoothly, he said, “Perhaps you could put the gun down, Ted.”
Ted stood up, his big body looming.
Solo swallowed, his throat dry as dust. “Put the gun down, Ted.”
“Shit, boy, you don’t think I’d shoot you, do you?”
Solo watched, all senses on high alert as Ted brandished the gun.
