Shards of You and Me

Here it is. Your exclusive sneak peek at my July release, Shards of You and Me. Enjoy x

Chapter 1

Annie

It’s no easy feat to hold a tune when there’s a demon behind you. Sister Maria is laid out on the floor in the back room, an elder praying on either side of her. I don’t need to be in the room to know what’s happening. The demonic attacks are a regular occurrence.

I keep my eyes forwards and try to bring some extra volume to my voice. So does Sister Ava beside me, although she sounds like she’s singing an entirely different song. When I sneak a glance at her, I notice spit gathered in the corners of her mouth. She usually ducks out into the kitchen for a drink after the public talk, but since no one is going near the back room today, she’s gone without.

The song comes to an end, and Sister Ava holds the final note—off-key—for a few seconds longer than everyone else. It makes the young sister in the next row giggle. A throat clears, and the room falls silent for prayer. I bow my head and close my eyes.

A moan cuts through the silence, and I can’t help but look over my shoulder. Brother Oliver has Sister Maria pinned to the ground with his knee, his prayers growing more urgent. Mum jabs me with her elbow, and I whip my head forwards, pressing my eyes shut and wishing I could cover my ears as well. The brother on the platform does remarkably well under difficult circumstances and keeps the prayer nice and short. Finally, there’s a collective murmur of amens followed by the relief of conversation filling the room.

‘Poor Sister Maria,’ Mum says, tutting. ‘I might drop a hot meal over this afternoon. I can’t imagine she’ll be up to cooking.’

A four-wheel drive pulls up at the door, and the driver jumps out to open the boot. The back seat is laid flat, and a moment later, a disorientated Sister Maria is helped out to the car. Her daughter isn’t allowed to go with her, so Sister Jane takes the crying girl to the far end of the Kingdom Hall to pray. The boot is closed, the car pulls away, and everyone resumes their conversations.

‘Annie.’

I turn to find Brother Oliver, one of two elders in our congregation, standing at the end of the row of seats. He’s wearing his favourite blue suit and trademark smile that never quite reaches his eyes. My hands immediately turn clammy. ‘Hi.’

‘Can we have a private word in the back room?’ he asks. ‘You can bring your mum along if you like.’

I glance at Mum, who’s also managing to smile—even if it doesn’t quite fit the moment.

‘Happy to sit in,’ she says, ushering me in his direction.

My feet obey. Only my feet.

All eyes land on me as we head to the back of the hall. The glass doors slide closed behind us, indicating that the conversation is of a more serious nature. No one can hear us, but everyone can see us.

He doesn’t sit, so I don’t either. Instead, he turns to face me, ready to impart his wisdom. ‘It’s been wonderful seeing you regularly at the meetings,’ he begins. ‘I know year twelve can be very demanding, and there’s always pressure from teachers to put your worldly studies before your spiritual needs, so well done on keeping your priorities straight.’

The only person putting pressure on me right now is me. I want to do well. I want to feel like the previous thirteen years of school weren’t a complete waste.

I’m waiting for the ‘but’. He hasn’t brought me in here to point out the things I’m doing right. He could have done that out there with everyone else.

‘Annie’s very smart,’ Mum says, pride in her voice, ‘and she enjoys school, but she’s more focused on getting baptised at the next assembly.’

Brother Oliver nods slowly, then focuses back on me. ‘I wanted to ask you what you think about the skirt you’re wearing.’

This I wasn’t expecting.

I glance down at the black pencil skirt that I picked up at a thrift shop in Turram a few weeks ago. What do I think? I mean, the fabric’s a little itchy, even with stockings. It’s fitted. Perhaps that’s the issue. ‘To be honest, I haven’t really thought much about it.’

‘It’s a very popular style among the sisters right now,’ Mum adds.

‘I won’t pretend to be up with the latest fashions,’ he replies light-heartedly. ‘What I will say though is that it’s worth sitting down in the skirts when you’re trying them on to see where the hem ends up.’

Length. This is about the length. The skirt sits well below the knee when I’m standing and slightly above when I’m sitting. But who’s looking at my knees when I’m seated?

‘We must consider everyone in the congregation when selecting clothing for the meetings,’ Brother Oliver continues. ‘There are many young brothers who need our help staying focused on the talks.’ He says this last part with a knowing smile.

‘Did someone complain?’ my mother asks nervously.

He meets her gaze. ‘No, no. Everyone was focused on the spiritual food on offer this morning. But since I gave the morning talk, I had a unique view from the platform.’

It’s his complaint. He noticed.

I take a small step back, shame swallowing me.

‘We appreciate you bringing it to our attention,’ Mum says.

He opens the Bible that I hadn’t noticed he was carrying and starts flicking through the pages until he finds what he’s looking for. ‘1 Timothy 2:9–10. The women should adorn themselves in appropriate dress, with modesty and soundness of mind, not with styles of hair braiding and gold or pearls or very expensive clothing, but in a way that is proper for women professing devotion to God, namely, through good works.’

He doesn’t have to worry about me wearing anything expensive. I turn the leather bracelets on my wrist. It gives my hand something to do.

‘I know this can be a very uncomfortable topic for sisters,’ he says, sounding sincere, ‘but it’s an important conversation to have.’

What’s uncomfortable is that he brought me in the back to tell me that he noticed my knees during his talk this morning. My knees.

‘Perhaps I can take the hem down,’ Mum offers.

Brother Oliver walks over to the glass doors. ‘We’re very lucky to have so many sisters with sewing skills in the congregation.’ He slides open the door and gestures for us to go ahead of him.

Such a gentleman. A true beacon of light to young brothers.

I walk across the floor where Sister Maria lay fitting minutes earlier.

‘Will you be joining us for field service today?’ he asks before I have the chance to flee.

I have an assessment due in three days, but that’s not the right answer. ‘Yes,’ I say, pausing at the door.

He’s visibly pleased by my response, and Mum is visibly pleased at him being pleased.

‘First day of sunshine we’ve had in a long time,’ she says, following me out. ‘Perhaps we can eat outside if the lawn’s dry?’

I loathe eating lunch as a congregation. Soggy rolls and eternal rotations of stale fruit cake. What I don’t understand is the older sisters have spent years perfecting their sponge cakes. So why always fruit cake?

Mum and Brother Oliver exchange a few more pleasantries. The second he steps away, I head for the exit.

‘Where are you going?’ Mum calls to me.

Out. Out of the hall. Out of sight. Away from the stares. ‘To get my cardigan from the car. I’m going to need something to cover my knees with.’ I tug my skirt down as I walk. The exit’s a few steps away.

‘Annie.’

Ignoring Mum, I rush through the door and don’t stop until I reach the car. When I try the handle, it doesn’t open. Slapping the door, I drop my forehead to the glass window. Only once my breathing slows do I return inside for the keys.

 

Chapter Two

Hunter

I’m heating baked beans in the kitchen when I hear the gunshot. A chill starts behind my eyes and runs through every bone, organ, and vein before exiting my fingers and toes. Flicking the stove off, I jog to the front door, stepping into my boots on the way out. Dad’s supposed to be pulling ragwort. That’s what he said two hours ago as yet another beer hissed open in his hands.

‘I’ll cook dinner when I get back,’ he’d said before leaving.

Liar. I can’t remember the last time he was sober enough to cook.

The sheep disperse when I leap over the gate and start running. I’m prepared for anything at this point—I’ve been prepared for years. Though imagining his death is one thing, seeing it up close will be quite another.

But he’s not dead. He’s sitting up, head in his hands and the rifle lying in the grass next to him. I freeze when I see a bloodied and lifeless kelpie twenty feet away.

‘What the fuck did you do?’ I ask, heading straight for the dog.

He looks up, red-faced and clearly drunk. ‘I thought it was a fox.’

It looks nothing like a fox. I bend down to ensure it’s dead, then walk back to Dad, snatching up the rifle. ‘Go home.’

He blinks up at me. ‘Whose dog is it?’

I open the bolt and empty the remaining cartridges onto the grass. ‘Likely the Wilsons’.’ It tends to wander.

Dad stands up and sways on his feet. ‘I’ll take it to them.’

I fight the urge to push him back down. ‘Really? You’re going to show up at their house, still drunk, and hand them their dead pet that you just shot?’ I sling the rifle over one shoulder and go to collect the animal. It’s still warm, and that makes me even angrier for some reason. ‘I’ll go.’

‘I can clean up my own messes.’

‘You couldn’t last night,’ I say, referring to when he was sick beside the toilet. ‘Go home and sober up.’

Without a backwards glance, I keep walking all the way down to the creek that separates our farm from the Wilsons’ acreage. There’s a railroad tie posing as a bridge across the water. Only their dog crosses it, so I’ve no idea why it’s even there. Once a family of four, the Wilson family has dwindled to two—Annie and her mum. They’re Jehovah’s Witnesses, so the only time they step foot on our property is when they’re either looking for their dog or when they’re knocking on doors with bullshit messages about God, hope, and the meaning of life.

I head up the hill, swearing at a blackberry bush that snags my clothing. When I reach the top, I spot Annie in the horse paddock filling the water trough. She stills when she sees me, gaze dropping to the dog in my arms. She stares at it for a long moment before turning off the hose.

‘Your dog was on our property again,’ I say, stopping a few feet from her. ‘You know we have new lambs. I thought he was a fox.’

I expect her to cry or pray or fall to her knees, but she tucks locks of copper hair behind her ears and continues to stare at the animal with that sad expression on her face.

‘What’s your dog’s name again?’ I ask. ‘Moses? Noah?’

She lifts her gaze, her amber eyes reflecting the light. ‘My dog’s name is Banjo.’

I had it in my head that it was a Bible name. Now I look like I was being a smart-arse.

This is the part where I’m supposed to apologise and show some kind of remorse, but I don’t really do apologies—or remorse, for that matter. ‘Want me to bury him?’ I’m always happy to dig a hole in place of words.

She draws a long breath. ‘I don’t want you to bury my dog, no. You’ll need to ask the Davises about this one.’

Confused, I look down at the corpse in my arms. ‘This isn’t yours?’

She shakes her head, and her hair comes loose. ‘Fairly sure it’s the Davises’ new working dog. Her name is Millie.’

I check the gender of the dog. ‘Ah.’ Probably should have done that before presenting her with a bloodied corpse.

Annie whistles, and a moment later, a very much alive Banjo comes bounding up to us. His tail stops wagging when he smells the blood, and he walks over to sniff the dog I’m holding.

‘Well, make sure yours stays this side of the creek,’ I say, pushing her dog back with my foot. ‘Consider this a preview of things to come.’

She crinkles her nose. ‘You know, I saw your dad wandering around with a rifle earlier.’

‘So?’ It’s messed up that I can be angry at him and protective of him in the same breath.

She shrugs. ‘So maybe it wasn’t you who shot the dog.’

And we’re done. ‘Next time I’ll throw the carcass in the creek and save myself the headache.’

Annie tilts her head. ‘You could’ve done that this time.’

‘Aww.’ I smirk. ‘You trying to find the good in me, Wilson?’

‘Simply pointing out the facts.’

It’s time for me to leave, but I don’t. ‘I’d dispose of it now, but we both know your impeccable conscience will have you fishing it out of the water and taking it to the Davis farm yourself.’

‘Most people just call that common decency.’

Turns out Annie Wilson’s a bit of a smart-arse. ‘You’re free to call it whatever you want.’ I look in the direction of the Davis farm. ‘Just do me a favour and don’t mention anything to anyone about seeing my dad with a rifle, okay?’

‘You want me to lie?’

I return my gaze to her. I can’t tell if she’s being serious or simply trying to get a rise out of me. ‘Don’t stress. If news travels around town that I’m killing people’s dogs, no one’s going to come and ask you anything.’

She swallows and searches my eyes. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘Where?’

‘To the Davises’.’

Her words reek of kindness, which I’m absolutely not prepared for. ‘For what reason?’

She shrugs. ‘Moral support.’

I stare at her a moment. ‘I thought your kind aren’t allowed to be alone with the opposite sex?’

Her gaze falls to the dead dog in my arms. ‘I think I’d be reasonably safe in this instance.’

Why she thinks she would be safe with the guy who just confessed to shooting a dog, I’ve no idea. ‘I don’t need your Christian charity.’

She appears unfazed by my words, but I doubt much would faze this girl. I’ve heard the things people say to her at school, and I can only imagine what people say when she comes knocking at nine o’clock on a Saturday morning.

‘Annie!’

We both look in the direction of the house, and there’s her mum, standing at the back door, squinting in our direction.

‘Just be honest,’ Annie says, increasing the distance between us. ‘They’ll understand if you tell them the truth.’

I roll my eyes as I turn away. ‘Why don’t you just pray for me instead?’

‘And hide the gun,’ she adds, ignoring my last comment. ‘For your dad’s sake.’

My feet stop, and when I look back at Annie, I see pity. We don’t get much pity around these parts nowadays. It ran out long ago. You get maybe a year to grieve and fall apart after losing a loved one, and then you’re supposed to get on with things. And I did, mostly, but Dad couldn’t. He fell apart even more in the second year. And a little more every year since.

I nod once at Annie, then walk on.