Heather Falls in Love Pt. 06

'My wallet,' said Heather.

'Maybe you left it in the boozer.'

Like hell I did, thought Heather. She was paranoid about that wallet. It had definitely been there in her shorts' pocket when they got here, snug against her thigh. That meant someone must have pinched it while they were supposed to be spectating. And she already had her suspicions.

Still naked, she got to her feet. 'Maybe it's in that bag of yours.'

'Face on her,' screeched Marigold. 'Posh cunt's accusing me of theft.' Then, getting up herself, her eyes narrow and calculating: 'Can't you count, bitch? You're outnumbered three-to-one.'

'Then I've got a black belt for each of you,' Heather replied. 'Give me back my property and I'll say no more.'

Skanky Sue was on her feet now. So, even more unsteadily, was Carole.

'Come on, Hev,' said Carole, 'write it off to experience.'

Heather made a lunge for Marigold's clutch bag and, as she'd anticipated, Marigold reacted violently.

Big mistake!

Although out of training since she'd graduated, Heather had bucketloads of practice behind her. She had also managed to stay in a place that wasn't just calm . . . it was icy cold. Spinning through ninety degrees she deftly dodged the slap aimed at her head, immediately reversing the spin, her right elbow raised.

Bingo! Elbow crunched into jaw and Marigold went down like a sack of spuds.

Heather rounded on the other two, her hands up in a basic karate defensive position. 'I have to warn you,' she said evenly, 'I haven't been to class in years. I'm making this up as I go along. That makes me ten times as dangerous. If you make me react, I'll badly hurt you before I know what I'm trying to do.'

Carole shrugged and sat down again. 'Just go,' she said, 'ask me if I give a toss.'

'Pass me that,' Heather said, pointing with her foot.

'Me?' Skanky Sue looked reluctant but passed her the clutch bag.

'Ta-da! Here it is,' said Heather. Then, having had the foresight to check inside: 'My Amex is missing.' She unceremoniously tipped out the contents of Marigold's bag and raked through them with her toes. No sign of any card; plenty of multi-coloured tablets, a scary amount of condoms and what looked like a flick knife, but no card.

'Looks like you've got it, Sue. Hand it over. Ten seconds starting from now.'

Skanky Sue scowled and dragged her feet but, not four seconds later, produced the plastic. Heather put it back in its compartment in her wallet and rifled the notes. There was about five hundred dollars, about as much as she would have expected. If anything had been taken it could only be peanuts.

Time to go.

'Clothes,' she demanded.

Her shorts were already at her feet. Without comment, Carole pushed her trainers and T-shirt towards her. Heather gathered everything up then glanced at Marigold. Marigold was still on the groundsheet. She had come round, though, and seemed to have a sore head.

'Fuckin' cunt,' she rasped. 'I'll get even with you if it's the last thing I do.' Then, as if anxious to back her threat, she tried to snatch up one of the empty wine bottles. Heather stamped down on her wrist, catching it before the snatch was complete, feeling bones grinding together under her bare foot.

'Don't make me damage you,' she grated.

Marigold let out an angry squawk then let go of the makeshift weapon.

Taking her cue, Heather made her exit, stage right.

*****

Naked, her icy coldness all gone, Heather hastened through the campsite and into the neighbouring car park. She was naturally competitive and never backed down in a sporting arena. Confrontations in real life were, however, a different matter. Confrontations in real life involved emotions and risks of serious harm. As that flick knife had shown.

How could they do that, she raged, how could they use friendly, recreational sex as an opportunity to rob and steal?

The campervan had never been a more welcome sight. It may have been shock of some description, but she was shaking and juddering as she let herself in, taking half a dozen attempts to get the right key in the lock. Then, not stopping to think about drink-driving laws, she got the speed of light out of there.

Well, perhaps somewhere deep down she did think about drink-driving laws, because she didn't really break any speed limits. In fact she drove in her usual conservative way. And, by the grace of God, she didn't attract the attention of police patrol cars. That could only mean she didn't pass any. As she realized fifty or sixty miles along, she'd been driving with her clothes on the passenger seat, her boobs on the wheel.

That realization was one of her most startling. Fifty miles without wearing a stich! Okay, it was after midnight, but didn't that make the cops more vigilant? And exactly how much had she had to drink anyway? Eight pints and a glass of wine? More? More than a few sandwiches could soak up, anyway.

There was a turnoff ahead. Heather took it then stopped in the first layby and wriggled into her shorts and (probably) grubby T-shirt. Wishing she had a thermos of coffee, she studied a road sign.

"Tamworth" . . . wasn't that near Burton on Trent? Otherwise she'd never heard of it. There again, she was leaving places in a hurry just lately. Looking at maps hadn't taken the priority it deserved.

Fear swept through her. She was being pursued . . . she knew she was. Marigold and the other two were on her tail, knives flashing in the moonlight. Or, worse still, Marigold hadn't been as recovered as she'd seemed. That elbow to the jaw had damaged her brain. A massive stroke had hit her, killing her outright. And Carole had told the police precisely who was responsible . . .

Did Carole and her friends know about the campervan? She'd mentioned it to them, she was sure of that, but had they actually seen it? Did they know the number plate?

Restarting the motor, Heather headed towards Tamworth but never made it anywhere near. Believing all the devils in hell were at her heels, every instinct insisted she should ditch major roads and use the smattering of back tracks instead. Bugger the suspension, the dear old van was on its way out in any case. Self-preservation was the order of the day.

While the "major roads" were indifferently lit, the back tracks she found herself using were, if nothing else, consistent: they didn't have a single light bulb between them. They made rural parts of England seem like Blackpool's Golden Mile. Nowadays Heather's parents lived in Kettlewell. That was isolated enough, but was still a beacon of artificial illumination compared to this.

Darkness is my friend, Heather thought, bumping along at under ten miles an hour. She did wonder where she'd heard or read that sentiment, but didn't doubt it for a second. Darkness was her cloak of invisibility, and that was the best cloak of all.

The clock on the dash hadn't been working for weeks. Boss-man must have reconnected it as part of the service and patch-up. It was showing 03:47 when she finally accepted she could travel no more. Pulling over onto the nearest thing she could find to a verge, she switched off the engine.

And slept the sleep of the dead.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

(June 2004)

The noise of a car door woke her. The dash told her it was 09:53 and nineteen degrees. A glance in her mirror told her she was in trouble.

Or was she? So far she'd had minimal experience with Australian cops. This one was smiling but that was maybe just sadism. Okay, it was in America, but hadn't John Rambo been arrested in these sort of circumstances? Just before he drew First Blood? And the cop in question had wanted to lock him away for umpteen years. English cops weren't such bullyboys, of course; they'd just want to fine her umpteen years' salary. But Aussies were an unknown quantity . . .

'Good day,' the cop said, still smiling. 'Is everything all right?'

Heather climbed out of the campervan and did her best to return his smile. Had Marigold died? Was this guy hunting her down? Surely he'd have checked her registration before approaching a savage murderess.

Wouldn't he?

'I got lost,' she said. 'And I daren't drive any farther. There was nowhere else to stop.'

The cop nodded as if that happened all the time. 'The farmer saw you,' he said. 'Or rather, one of his hands did. They were afraid you'd been taken ill. Or soon would be. Sleeping out here on a cold night like last night.'

In spite of her concerns, Heather laughed. Before she'd nodded off she'd noticed the temperature: it had been twelve degrees. 'My school used to wait until the middle of winter before sending us camping in the Brecon Beacons,' she said truthfully. 'That's where the SAS go to practice endurance and survival techniques. Trust me; last night wasn't cold at all.'

The cop laughed with her. Then, more seriously, asked: 'Are you travelling alone?'

'I am now. My friend jumped ship in Albany. This is the first time I've got lost since then. Er, where can I get hold of this farmer? I'll thank him and pay for my stay.'

'He's twenty miles that way.' The Aussie pointed in a seemingly random direction. 'Don't worry about it. I'll let him know you're okay.' He clucked his tongue. 'Albany? That's near Perth, isn't it? You must know what you're doing to have come this far.'

And that was about it. The cop gave her directions to a turning point and, from there, onwards to a more major road. He did look dubiously at Heather's mode of transport but, after being assured it was fully serviced, said no more.

Home free, she thought as rutted track gave way to packed gravel and then tarmac.

Unless those three are coming after me . . .

*****

As the days passed Heather came to accept she really was home free. Seeing it as a distinguishing feature, she'd reluctantly removed the flag. And, having regularly passed police cars, she no longer feared her plate had been tagged as "wanted". She even convinced herself that the three witches of Merseyside weren't pursuing her. They had (allegedly) no wheels or money, and only "up north" as a clue to her destination. And, as they'd already done Cairns themselves, it was a long way to hitch on the off-chance.

Breathe easy, she told herself. They'll be busy beguiling and mugging somebody else . . . hopefully somebody with a gun and a short fuse.

Yet easy-breathing wasn't a given. Although she tried to follow the old travelling pattern it wasn't the same. Having fun and enjoying herself simply didn't happen. Suddenly, after years of loquaciousness, she found it hard to talk to people. She didn't think she could ever trust a stranger again. And the idea of trusting anyone enough to be in intimate couldn't even be considered.

Accepting her new state of mind, accepting it was probably now as it always would be, she passed a seemingly endless succession of lonely days driving or sunbathing alone. At night-time she'd usually drop straight into black, dreamless sleep. Occasionally even sleep betrayed her and she'd console herself with Claire's gift. That happened more as a necessity than anything else. She never once felt any real pleasure. Later, as she neared her destination, she decided she'd been walking a tightrope over deep depression during that journey, and a thin tightrope at that. Thankfully she hadn't fallen off, but it had been a mightily close-run thing.

Somehow she stretched the trip out and survived the experience, arriving in Cairns on the date she'd fixed with Ingrid. D-Day, they'd called in, in memory of those long-ago landing beaches. If they were going to meet again, it would be at H-Hour on D-Day. In Heather's mind at least, that meant at Happy Hour on Destiny Day.

Naturally, she got there early . . . but only after expecting the campervan to die on her for every yard of the last fifty miles. She wasted the afternoon away, walking the city, sticking grimly to tradition. If Ingrid was here, if she too had arrived today, then she would be doing walkabout as well, so surely they'd bump into each other . . . but no. Cairns turned out to be a lot bigger than expected (just as humid, lots bigger), but no Ingrid. The minutes crawled by until her nerves could finally take no more.

*****

Heather found the bar easily, getting there way before the agreed time. There were tables outside and a few other customers enjoying drinks, most of them no doubt fresh back from viewing rainforests or reefs.

No sign of Ingrid.

Inside, the bar-room was deserted. It was also dark and relatively cool. Heather pulled up a stool and ordered a pot of cold beer and kangaroo jerky. She watched condensation pour down the outside of her glass before downing it in one.

'Impressive,' the barman observed. 'Having another?'

'I'm probably having loads,' she replied. 'Just keep them coming.'

'No worries. Do you want a tab?'

'Better not. I've previous for forgetting about tabs when I get drunk.' She piled all her change on the bar top and added some notes. 'Let's see how long that little lot lasts.'

For the next three-quarters of an hour she drank what she suddenly couldn't help but think of as "lager" and considered options. In her heart of hearts she knew Ingrid wasn't going to make it. That left two choices: back to Sydney to give the patched-up campervan its last rites, else onward to Darwin. Back to Sydney didn't seem to be a good idea; there were no places she wanted to revisit on the way and no-one she wanted to see when she got there. Apart from maybe Bluey, and that wasn't very likely to happen. As for Darwin . . . well, she'd have to get new transport because it was an awfully long way to walk. Not to mention all those rivers and crocodiles.

And she'd promised Boss-man not to be rash and take chances in the Great Bugger All.

Maybe getting a new van would snap her out of this.

This . . .

Sod it, she thought and signalled for another pot.

At five to Happy a second barman emerged from the back. He took one look at Heather, frowned then started rooting in the till. Producing a piece of paper, he began reading out loud.

'"Beautiful long black hair; wicked green eyes; tanned so dark she could be an Amazonian princess; stunningly good-looking. And legs . . ."'

He leant over the bar and studied her legs. 'Yep, it's you all right. I've to give you this.' He waved an envelope at her.

'I don't suppose you were given that by an English girl?' she said, trying to ignore the lump in her throat. 'Hair so blonde it looks white; eyes as blue as an icy fjord; tanned like a Copacabana beach babe, but much sexier.'

'Nah,' he said. 'It came in the post.'

'It'll be my Dear John.' She sighed as she took the envelope. It had her name on it, in Ingrid's familiar scrawl. 'I'd better have another beer before I read the worst.'

The first barman passed her a fresh glass and waved away her attempt to pay. 'On the house,' he said.

She smiled thinly, half-expecting him to say it really was the start of happy hour, then tore open the envelope, extracting a letter and leaving a couple of odds and ends for the time being.

Dearest Heather (the letter began)

Sorry I'm not there with you but big news . . . I'M GETTING MARRIED!!

I also think I might be pregnant (seventeen years ahead of your personal schedule!!) but that's another story.

Before I get going, I've been coerced into telling you that all your friends in Albany really miss you. More of that shortly.

My big day took some arranging, what with visas and the likes, but it's on for four weeks after the day you should read this (four weeks from then/now is the 31st July, if you've lost all track of time).

I've invited lots of people from England and quite a few have already said they'll come, Rachael being one. My dad, however, isn't well enough to travel, so I need someone else to give me away.

Claire, Leigh and Lauren got together and somehow collected enough to buy the air ticket I've enclosed with this letter. No pressure, but money means more to them than it does to you and me. And they wouldn't let me contribute at all, not even one dollar. So that's how much they want you to come back.

Claire is still with Brett, by the way, but he's moved out for a while to "give himself some space". Claire says that gives her the space to let you move in a while when/if you come. She also told me to tell you she really, really, really wants to see you again. I think she means it too. I've never seen her half so serious before. She probably said "really" fifty times, not just three!

Personally, I don't just want to see you again, I want you to help me organize the biggest and best wedding ever. As reward for that, you can be maid of honour and father of the bride (Bradley says the dual role means you get to go out with the bucks as well as the hens, so bring a double supply of condoms!!).

As you'll see, the air ticket can be used just about anytime in the next month, so you can jiggle your plans to suit. Please say you'll make it.

Lots and lots of love

Ingrid xxxxx

Heather emptied the envelope onto the bar top, next to her diminishing pile of change. As well as the air ticket, there was a photograph taken outside her favourite boozer in Albany. Claire and the twins were sitting on the steps holding cards, pulling silly faces and trying not to laugh.

Leigh's card said simply:

HEATHER

Lauren's said:

COME

And Claire's said:

BACK

A fourth card, propped against Claire's knees, read:

PLEASE

If Sydney and Darwin hadn't completely gone out of the window with the first few lines of the letter, they did with that snapshot.