Murder with the Lot by Sue Williams

waiting around to be arrested or strapped down and subjected to some painful mental probe. I had serious matters to sort out. Noel and his moist-wipes. I tried starting my car. No go. Out of petrol.
    I got back into Brad’s car and steamed along the bitumen. It was true, what I’d said about Piero, how he knew about mistakes. Dean was a bit of a mistake himself, not that I’d ever tell him that. He stopped a whole lot of things from happening in our lives, Piero’s and mine. Especially mine.
    Motherhood’s a special joy, of course. But sometimes joy’s not everything it’s cracked up to be.
    I took the turn and drove along the track to Perry Lake, winding among the spinifex and buloke pines. Bingo. Noel’s van was parked beside the track, in the shade. Grabbing Brad’s binoculars, I scanned the place. No sign of Noel. No sign of Bubbles either. I crept up to the van, peered in through the window of the sliding door, cupped my hands around my face to shade my eyes. The van was full of shelves and was surprisingly tidy. Maybe I’d been wrong, maybe Noel was a moist-wipe type of person after all.
    On the lower shelf was a small fridge, a carton of food and a cardboard box filled with scrunched-up newspaper. Above them, a bag of clothing and a plastic crate piled with ropes and leather belts with metal spikes attached. Next to the belts another glint of metal caught my attention. A small curved saw, like a short, toothed scimitar. Not that I’ve had in-depth experience with scimitars. So was Noel some kind of bondage freak? A grey S&M nomad?
    I stepped back, wiping the sweat from the back of my neck. I fanned my dress. There wasn’t a sound anywhere, the only things moving were the ants swarming around the leaves at my feet. Everything else had shut up shop in the heat. The salt around Perry Lake shimmered in the distance.
    The moist-wipe question wasn’t resolved, not exactly, but I wasn’t keen to stick around. And I didn’t want to run into Bubbles. I moved towards Brad’s car.
    Hearing a sharp cry behind me, I whirled around. There it was again, way over in the trees, beyond the van. I skulked towards the van, hunching down beside it, like a cop in one of those hostage-liberation operations. Holding up Brad’s binoculars, I scanned through the trees, my eyes adjusting to the gloom. Two people were standing in a clearing, a heap of shopping bags on the ground between them. A black dog stood with them, not obviously attacking anyone. I ticked the people off my list: one tall skinny bloke with wild white hair and a beard; one girl with messy blonde hair and a floaty apricot dress. The dress was looking the worse for wear. They were standing near a third person, who was handcuffed to a tree. He was a smaller, weaselly bloke in a torn grey suit. Clarence.
    So were they all into some bondage thing? Is that why Clarence had said his book would be a bestseller, did it involve peculiar porn? Clarence jiggled his leg, cried out again. Well, anyone could have told him bondage would be a problem in the Mallee. Clarence and his cuffs had met up with a crowd of bull ants.
    Bubbles looked my way, sniffed the air. She stiffened, then took off; coming towards me. Long, heavy strides, faster than a bolting horse. She barked, strangled gargles, sounding more like an unhinged mother bear than any normal dog. I scurried towards Brad’s car with his binoculars swinging heavily around my neck, her galloping thumps closing in behind me. I could feel the dog’s hot breath against my legs, hear her teeth clacking as she took empty snapping bites near my feet.
    I made it to the car, grabbed the door and flung it open. I was mid-leap when Bubbles got my leg. She clamped on and shook it, like she was planning on worrying it right off. I screamed and held onto the car door, then turned and whacked her with Brad’s binoculars. They cracked against her head. She fell back with a