Blue Skies by Helen Hodgman Page A

people who no longer existed. I ran. Young growth slapped and wound itself round my arms, breasts and back in stinging tendrils. Trees grew faces and laughed, stretching out their roots as traps to trip me—the fleeing figure in a Disney wood.
    I reached the log. Ben was sitting astride it, hunched over, drawing. I sat on the ground and leaned against it. It made a shield between me and the hill. I concentrated on breathing slowly. My mind cleared. My trembling ceased.
    â€˜Feeling better?’ he asked.
    â€˜Yes. I got frightened up there alone. I ran down too fast.’
    â€˜Yes. I would have stayed. But you were so asleep I thought I’d come down and make a start on this. You sleep a lot, don’t you? Always falling asleep. We’d better be getting back. They’ll be home soon.’
    I sat and waited while he packed up his things. I didn’t tell him about being watched and driven from the hill.

    Something was happening down below at his house.
    Little black-and-white cars with blue lights on top were turning up the narrow dirt track that led round the side. One car stopped at the front corner and the other went on round into the back yard. Four tiny dark-blue uniformed figures got out. Two went round towards the front door, and two crossed the yard and disappeared into the shadow of the verandah.
    Ben stopped. ‘Jesus Christ. What’s happening down there? It’s the fuzz. Those are cop cars, aren’t they? Oh no, not again. What’ve I done this time?’
    As we watched, the two sets of figures came from the back and front of the house and held a meeting in the yard.
    â€˜The bastards stopped me yesterday. I came up to town last night, trying to score some stuff. Heard there was some about. A little bit of cool inspiration for sale.’ He laughed. ‘They stopped me in the street. Asked what I was doing in the city. Playing silly buggers. Asked me if I didn’t think I was a bit young to be wandering about after dark. Didn’t search me though. Lucky for me. I suppose they’ve come out here now to turn the place over.’
    â€˜Will they find anything?’ I hoped we had smoked it all.
    â€˜No. They’re not that smart. They’ll never find it. Besides there’s nobody home. Can’t bust their way in, can they? It’s against the law. We’ll just sit up here and wait till they go. Shouldn’t be long, they’re just having a little chat about it. The bastards hate to give up. What are they doing now?’
    They were splitting up again—two round the front, two round the back. We waited. This time they didn’t reappear.
    â€˜Jeez. They’ve gone in. They must’ve gone inside. The buggers have broken into my house.’
    He ran, and I followed without thought, over the long-grassed lower slopes, through the large brown paddock thick with thistles, not looking where I was going, praying hard: Our Father Who Art in Heaven, don’t let there be a fuss—please. My ankles turned on the hard rutted dirt of the paddock.
    The prickly clump, wearing my T-shirt and the hat, flapped in the corner of my eye, an absurd scare crow. I stopped to collect the things. There was no hurry, I thought. This was nothing to do with me. Better to wait until it was sorted out. The police needn’t know I was here. If they did, they would only ask questions. perhaps start watching me, making life difficult. So I waited, sitting in the paddock under a little cloud of tiny sticky flies, until the sound of slamming car doors reached me.
    I walked slowly back to the house and went round the back. It was quiet. The chickens had fled.
    I entered the kitchen. Just inside the door a vase of dried grasses was lying smashed on the flagstones. Jars of herbs had been emptied out on to the floor; their fragrance hung in the air. The old Chinese tea canister had been upended on the table, and as I watched, it slowly rolled to the edge and