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Authors: Robert Gott
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was nervous about meeting him. The memory of his violence and contempt remained raw. Now, though, he was ready to knock the old man down at the slightest provocation. He was going to take the motorbike, and that was that — if his father objected, it wouldn’t end well. He noticed that there was fresh hay in the paddock closest to the house (he wasn’t to know that Constable Manton had returned briefly and put it there), and that the horses and donkey were hoeing into it. Bypassing the house, he went straight to the shed where the motorbike was kept. If he could get away without having to confront his father, well and good.
While he was in the shed he heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. His father didn’t own a car, so it wasn’t him. He could see the driveway from the door of the shed, and he was shaken when he saw a police car. They’d come looking for him. Why else would they be there? He watched as four people, including a woman, got out. A female copper? Surely not. One of them looked familiar. He might have been there that night a few weeks ago in Belgrave, but Starling couldn’t be sure. There was a door in the back of the shed, and he slipped through it, out into the yard, through a gap in the fence, and crouched behind a thick clump of blackberries. He had a good view of the back of his father’s property, and he was confident that he couldn’t be seen from there.
The four visitors didn’t go up to the front door. Instead, they walked to the old cypress, just beyond the back fence. Starling didn’t have a clear view of the cypress, but he could see enough to be puzzled by their interest in it. They spent several minutes near the tree before checking the backyard, including the shed holding the motorbike. When they walked in there, Starling quickly raised his forearm to his nose. Did he smell strongly of fish? Could he have left a scent behind that would puzzle the police? No, that was a ridiculous thought. These were plods, not Sherlock Holmes. Anyway, no one would be surprised to smell fish around these parts.
The police entered the house through the back door without so much as knocking. Why would they do that? They mustn’t have been looking for him, after all. Were they hoping to take his father by surprise? No. If they’d wanted to do that, they’d make sure both the front and the back were covered. So, either they were expected or … George felt a sudden rush of excitement. They knew before they arrived that Starling senior wasn’t at home. And what could that mean? His father had either left the district unexpectedly and suspiciously, or he was dead. At any rate, something had happened to him, and George didn’t particularly care what. Whatever it was, he wouldn’t need his house anymore — George Starling had no intention of claiming it or living in it. What he intended to do was burn it down. After the police left, he’d give them time to get back to Warrnambool, and then he’d cauterise the bloody memories of his childhood with fire.
The police were inside the house for about 20 minutes. Clearly, they were searching it. If they were looking for anything to do with him, they’d be disappointed. They came out, taking nothing away with them, and drove away.
He came out from behind the blackberries and returned to the shed that housed the motorcycle. To his surprise, the petrol tank was almost full, and there were two full tins of petrol hidden under hessian bags. His father must have acquired this fuel illegally. George didn’t think that two tins amounted to stockpiling, but John Starling was unlikely to have been constrained by rationing laws, and there were probably more tins of fuel squirreled away on the property. George picked up one of the containers and took it with him to the house. He didn’t want to waste it, so he splashed it judiciously, not liberally, at points in the living room and corridor where flames would have something to crawl up. He didn’t
While he was in the shed he heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. His father didn’t own a car, so it wasn’t him. He could see the driveway from the door of the shed, and he was shaken when he saw a police car. They’d come looking for him. Why else would they be there? He watched as four people, including a woman, got out. A female copper? Surely not. One of them looked familiar. He might have been there that night a few weeks ago in Belgrave, but Starling couldn’t be sure. There was a door in the back of the shed, and he slipped through it, out into the yard, through a gap in the fence, and crouched behind a thick clump of blackberries. He had a good view of the back of his father’s property, and he was confident that he couldn’t be seen from there.
The four visitors didn’t go up to the front door. Instead, they walked to the old cypress, just beyond the back fence. Starling didn’t have a clear view of the cypress, but he could see enough to be puzzled by their interest in it. They spent several minutes near the tree before checking the backyard, including the shed holding the motorbike. When they walked in there, Starling quickly raised his forearm to his nose. Did he smell strongly of fish? Could he have left a scent behind that would puzzle the police? No, that was a ridiculous thought. These were plods, not Sherlock Holmes. Anyway, no one would be surprised to smell fish around these parts.
The police entered the house through the back door without so much as knocking. Why would they do that? They mustn’t have been looking for him, after all. Were they hoping to take his father by surprise? No. If they’d wanted to do that, they’d make sure both the front and the back were covered. So, either they were expected or … George felt a sudden rush of excitement. They knew before they arrived that Starling senior wasn’t at home. And what could that mean? His father had either left the district unexpectedly and suspiciously, or he was dead. At any rate, something had happened to him, and George didn’t particularly care what. Whatever it was, he wouldn’t need his house anymore — George Starling had no intention of claiming it or living in it. What he intended to do was burn it down. After the police left, he’d give them time to get back to Warrnambool, and then he’d cauterise the bloody memories of his childhood with fire.
The police were inside the house for about 20 minutes. Clearly, they were searching it. If they were looking for anything to do with him, they’d be disappointed. They came out, taking nothing away with them, and drove away.
He came out from behind the blackberries and returned to the shed that housed the motorcycle. To his surprise, the petrol tank was almost full, and there were two full tins of petrol hidden under hessian bags. His father must have acquired this fuel illegally. George didn’t think that two tins amounted to stockpiling, but John Starling was unlikely to have been constrained by rationing laws, and there were probably more tins of fuel squirreled away on the property. George picked up one of the containers and took it with him to the house. He didn’t want to waste it, so he splashed it judiciously, not liberally, at points in the living room and corridor where flames would have something to crawl up. He didn’t
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