Mike Dixon

His first attempt had resulted in the collapse of the hives.
This time he used an old washing machine. He pulled it
across the concrete floor and climbed on top. The hole was
too small to climb through but the boards on the sides were
rotten. He pushed them aside and pulled himself up.
Daryl‟s office was next to the room with the man and
child. He crept forward and heard them above the howling
wind. The child was screeching and the man was yelling at
her, telling her to shut up.
There was something oddly familiar about their voices.
David stood beside the door and listened.
„Why can‟t I go to mummy?‟
„Shut up!‟
He moved closer. Both the child and the man sounded
uncannily like people he knew. He wondered if his ears were
deceiving him. Then the child said something that banished
all doubts from his mind.
„I want to go to mummy and Charlie.‟
„Shut up!‟
Suddenly, David knew why the old horse, the bright sunshine
and the avenue of paperbark trees were so familiar.
He‟d been here before. This was the old family homestead,
the place where he had spent holidays as a small child. He
knew where he was and he knew who was on the other side
of the door.
He threw it open and bounded inside.
His cousin Harald was sitting on a bed with his little
daughter, Anne. He‟d taken off his jacket and was in his
shirtsleeves, red-faced and sweating. One hand rested on a
gun that protruded obscenely from his waistband. The other
clasped his daughter in a way that David found distasteful.
„Uncle David!‟
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