Mike Dixon

„Relax, mate!‟
It came from a short distance
away.
„Take it easy!‟
David turned his head and saw a
figure silhouetted against the
blood-red sky. He carried a rifle,
which was pointing upwards, and
wore a broad-brimmed hat.
„That mongrel won‟t give you
any more worries.‟
He spoke slowly with the quiet delivery of the Australian
bush. David waited for him to approach.
„I‟ll need you to give me a hand.‟ A torch picked out a
form in the bushes. „We can‟t leave him there. You go
down. I‟ll follow.‟
David scrambled over the rocks and the man strode be-
hind, negotiating the rough terrain with the ease of a city
dweller walking to the office. They reached the bloodied
form of Barry. The newcomer seemed indifferent to David‟s
presence. His attention was on Barry and the lie of the
land. He glanced back and forth between the corpse and a
spot up the gully.
„Take a hold of this.‟
He handed his torch to David and indicated a patch of
ground.
„Point it down there.‟
Everything seemed to be taking place in slow motion.
David‟s veins were charged with adrenalin. He‟d just escaped
death. There were two dead bodies. One at his feet
and the other by the grave he‟d been digging. His instinct
was to get away as fast as possible.
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