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

by the ghosts of the people who had once lived there. The collapsed mine. The twenty dead miners. A shiver ran down her back at the thought, enough to loosen her muscles. Taking another breath she chided herself for getting caught up in paranormal nonsense. Dylan was here. Somewhere. It was just her and him. In this town.

19

Emmaline

It was too dark to explore a town that was filled with dilapidated houses on the brink of collapse. And it was too early to sleep, so Emmaline drove to Hurton, careful to avoid running off the road. That was another angle to consider. That the family had simply driven off the road and been killed. Or maimed. Or trapped. Sending up some eagle eyes might be the way to go. A light plane out of Leonora or Kalgoorlie. Something for her to follow up on tomorrow.

There was only one place open in town. A pub that had seen better days, the brick crumbling and one of the porch lights flickering like a drunk passing in and out of consciousness, but better than nothing.

All eyes fell upon her as she entered. She recognized the stares, a mix of curiosity, lust and suspicion, all in equal measure.

She took a seat on a stool that squeaked under her as if protesting the disruption to its evening of quiet inaction. At the far end of the bar, two men in baseball caps sat on similar red-topped stools, while a third stood between them. Their conversation had paused in favour of visually undressing her. There were further mumblings from the booths beyond but it was too dark to see into them.

The barman left his perch along the back counter and stepped forward to meet her. His eyes betrayed the same suspicion, his eyelid half-closed on one side. His mouth slightly drooped too. On the same side. Bell’s palsy. Not severe but noticeable close up.

‘Got any vodka?’

‘Yep.’

‘Good vodka?’

‘It all does the same job.’

Emmaline smiled. ‘A double. Dash of pineapple juice. And ice.’

As she waited for her drink she awaited the questions. There were always questions for a young, attractive, single woman in a pub. What was up for grabs was whether they would be inquisitive or intrusive.

‘Where are you from?’

It was the guy standing up between his friends who broke the ice.

‘Out of town,’ said Emmaline meeting his narrowed eyes.

‘Out of country, more like,’ said the guy, bathing in his friends’ laughter.

Emmaline met the comment head-on as her drink arrived. Lacking a straw she stirred it with her finger as she replied. ‘Nope, Australian. What’s your excuse?’

‘Excuse for what?’ asked the guy, confused, a look on his face as if wondering whether he had left the gas on at home.

‘For that dumb look on your face. And that haircut. Was your mum drunk when she did it? Or just angry that you didn’t pull out when you promised?’

The guy’s friends exploded in laughter, one spitting out his beer over the bar, the cascade just missing the barman.

Emmaline swivelled on her stool and waited for the guy to charge over. He was tall but skinny. Manageable. She had studied a number of forms of self-defence. It was only smart to in her job. Sometimes she had to ask questions that riled people. Sometimes she just liked asking questions that riled people.

But the guy was being held back by his still chuckling friends, seething but subdued by the offer of another beer. They were dropkicks, neither smart nor gonna make it very far. She turned her attention to her reason for being here.

‘Any of you know the Maguire family?’

The question was met with murmurs that suggested knowledge but no outright response. Interesting but not incriminating.

Emmaline was used to being treated with suspicion. Because she was a cop or because of her skin colour. Some even considered it a kind of novelty. As if they were surprised she was able to do the job.

‘You can’t find them?’ came an anonymous voice from a side booth.

‘I have news for them,’ said Emmaline, wanting to avoid disclosing the circumstances. News of the disappearance didn’t need to be broadcast yet. There were formal channels for that.

‘So are you a postwoman or a cop?’ said one of the three from the end of the bar. One of the seated ones. As ugly as his mate, features bent out of shape.

‘Right now I’m tired and pissed off. They lived out in Kallayee.’

Met with more murmurs but nothing substantial, she returned to her drink, the vodka cheap and nasty as was the pineapple juice. Enough to get the job done. But she wouldn’t drink too much. She had the guys at the end of the bar to keep an eye on.

As she nursed the dregs and weighed up having a second against the perilous drive home, she felt a presence beside her. She turned around to find a guy with a pair of sparkling blue eyes that contrasted a worn, tanned face that made him look older than he was. Outdoor work maybe. A farmhand. A high-wire guy maintaining the electricity lines. A painter–decorator. Possibly Miller who owned the shitty B&B Rispoli mentioned.

‘Are you a cop?’

Emmaline paused. She didn’t detect any accusation or bitterness in the question. She nodded.

‘Haven’t seen you before,’ he said.

‘Do you get many cops calling with you?’ she asked.

‘That would be telling. Another?’ he asked, tilting his head towards her nearly empty glass.

Emmaline shook her head. Half an hour and she’d attempt the drive home. ‘You go right ahead, though.’

He did. He was handed a foamy beer that threatened the lip but stayed in the glass. He nodded at the seat. ‘Mind if I?’

Emmaline waved her hand in invite, overhearing some protests from the far end of the bar. But those three had lost their right to speak to her. Informally. Formally she retained the right to speak to all of them anytime she liked.

‘The name’s Matthew. Or Matty if you want.’

Emmaline took the offered hand. It was calloused