Vanished, James Delargy [i like reading books txt] 📗

If Lorcan could write a book maybe she could vlog about life in town. At least fucking YouTube wouldn’t bow to some sweaty bastard in a suit stuffing dollars in its G-string and get her channel shut down like the test centres ones. Those had been genius. Well planned, perfectly executed. But illegal.

There was only one problem. Dylan, tagging along, pausing every few seconds to investigate something. And constantly talking over her monologues.

‘Mum, Mum, film me!’

The tug on her arm distorted the camera shot.

‘Dylan, not now,’ she berated him.

‘When?’

‘Later.’

‘You said that five minutes ago. I want to be in it.’

Naiyana wasn’t having it. She was still unsure over showing her own face in them. In case it was seen by the wrong people. People who might want to harm her. Words were powerful and all she had. One hundred and ten pounds with arms like matchsticks does not a fighter make.

Her words and looks had won Lorcan over. Though handsome, a good earner and a good father she always wondered if she had sold herself short. When she had first met him she had been a touch broken-hearted. And fried-out from the non-stop social justice campaigning and the many protests across the state and further wide. Each battle like a war. And though her wounds couldn’t be seen they were there. She was weakened. He was a solid and undemanding choice.

Then motherhood took over, creating a bubble she found it hard to escape from. More love-stuck than love-struck. Then a couple of years ago she had bumped into a former colleague and now campaign head who had asked her to get involved again. Only this time, she had something tangible and personal to fight for. Her child. And herself. She desired real change. Having Dylan had instilled in her the sense that she could do anything. She could create life so what could stop her? But there was one thing she had lost from her teenage firebrand years. The stop button. The tap could be turned on but not off. This unrelenting forcefulness made her popular in the community. A driving force. But she had taken it too far. Marches and protests were fine but she needed more. She demanded infiltrations and graffiti. Politics and smearing. Which led her to become a pariah, although she thought of herself more as a martyr, for she had been right. But it had hurt people.

She aimed the phone down the street. The road arrowed perfectly straight almost all the way to the horizon where it twisted off deeper into the outback, towards Orange Lake and after that, she had no idea. And had no intention of finding out.

The emptiness seemed a fitting end to a first chapter. She would upload it when she got to Hurton tomorrow. Squeezing her eyes tight and opening them she let them readjust to the real world, brighter than the screen, the colours sharper and more intense than the digitized version. The realization that she actually was here, and not viewing this barren town on a computer screen back in civilization, hit her with a thud of sadness. She would be back amongst the living sometime soon, she promised herself. But right now it was time for dinner. She glanced around. Dylan was nowhere to be seen.

‘Dylan?’ she called out.

There was no answer. Not even an echo, nothing of significance for the sound waves to bounce off. There was nothing for miles.

She swivelled around to look towards the crossroads. She searched for a speck of movement amongst the disused buildings. Nothing. Sliding the phone into the pocket of her shorts she called out again. More urgently this time, trying to muster concern more than anger. And failing.

‘Dylan, get out here now!’

Again there was no response.

Moving to the nearest house, a wooden bungalow that was missing one entire side wall, she peeked inside.

‘Dylan?’ she called out again, only to be met with silence.

It was the same in the next broken shack.

‘This isn’t funny, Dylan.’ Concern had now turned into a deep, hollow worry that echoed inside her.

She looked at the doghouse that adjoined the shack. It was still standing, better constructed than the shattered dwelling it was attached to. She didn’t think Dylan would have crawled into it but he could have. So she checked, squeezing her head inside and nearly vomiting with the musty smell of hot, stale air and straw bedding that had turned to dust.

She stood up fast, squeezing her eyes shut, this time to fight the dizziness. Her legs and arms felt numb.

‘Get out here now, Dylan!’ Anger had turned to fear. This was a game of hide and seek she was not enjoying. Hide and seek was tolerable only in a safe and controlled environment. Where she knew every place Dylan could hide and she could delay the search to sneak another sip of wine.

She passed on to the next building, her cries for Dylan growing more frantic. Her desperation was building as was her hatred of this town. There was something else too. The sense that there were eyes on her. Watching her every move. And taken her son.

Moving back to the middle of the street, she looked around again. But there was nothing. Nobody and nothing. But she knew there was. She could feel it. There was something here with them. In Kallayee.

Her veins froze and her muscles seized. Maybe Dylan had been right. Maybe he had really seen someone in town. Suddenly it felt as if each grain of sand was an eye watching her, looking, judging. A million eyes. A million judgements. She took a breath, the fiery air choking her lungs. Was she going crazy? Was there something creeping up from below the ground, a toxic gas from some long-forgotten mine that silently blanketed the town? She had read about that sort of thing before. Carbon dioxide or monoxide. Or maybe that was a hallucination as well. Maybe they were all slowly going crazy.

Or maybe they were being haunted