Swimming on Dry Land by Helen Blackhurst Page A

wind it back. She has recorded the model, her hand moving buildings around. I press Record to scrub it out.
    â€˜Why did you bring so many clothes?’ Caroline asks. That’s when I point the camera at her. She has already put on her jeans, and stretches up her arms to slip into her camisole. Her breasts sing white against the t-shirt tan around her neck as the camisole slides over her head. She scowls at me. I keep the camera rolling.
    â€˜What are you doing?’ she says, slowly buttoning up a white blouse that has faint blue lines running through it, until the lace on her camisole disappears. I stop recording. She moves over to me, takes the camera out of my hands and dumps it roughly on the settee. ‘Let’s go,’ she snaps.
    And so we do.
    We drive through Akarula Street, past the moon-lit ghost gum. No sign of Mr M. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him after dark. There are no lights on in the houses – as if they are already abandoned. The bar is lit up, and one of the portacabins, probably the detectives’ quarters. It makes me wish I’d offered more.
    The bush spreads out on either side as we leave the street behind. Caroline leans her head against the window pane.
    â€˜Are you still mad with me?’ I ask. Her watery expression is hard to read in this patchy light.
    We drive for a while in silence. When we are two or three miles away from the town, I pull over, go round the back of the truck, and pop the boot. The rifle is loaded. I take out two pairs of gloves to stop our hands from slipping.
    â€˜Put these on,’ I tell her, passing her a pair through the window.
    â€˜What for? What are you doing with that gun?’
    â€˜You drive. Put the gloves on.’
    She refuses the gloves but clambers over to the driver’s seat and starts the ignition. I slide in beside her and hook my arm out of the open window, positioning the rifle so that it points straight ahead.
    â€˜What’s going on? You’re scaring me.’ Her arms are shaking.
    â€˜Put the headlights on full.’ The adrenalin pumps through me, hardening my muscles, making the underside of my skin feel electrified. Did you ever feel that rush, where your whole body is exploding? Like the second before you peak. It’s the best way to let go, to forget. I stick my head out of the window. The wind batters my face.
    â€˜Faster,’ I shout, banging on the side of the door as if I’m whipping a racehorse.
    â€˜Are you trying to get us killed?’
    I spot the first kangaroo, bounding out from the right. I let it get to the edge of the road before I fire. Caroline slams on the brakes. I almost drop the rifle as I lunge forward, hanging onto the windscreen from both sides.
    â€˜What the hell are you doing?’ she screams.
    I hand her the rifle and leap out of the truck to get a look. A big red. Still breathing.
    â€˜Need to finish him off,’ I say, turning back for the rifle.
    Caroline gets out of the truck and walks past me. ‘Stand back,’ she says, and then she fires three bullets. The animal flinches once and slackens with the last breath. When she looks at me, her eyes have emptied out. ‘Now you . I’ll give you five minutes to make a run for it.’
    I laugh and walk towards her, but she flips the safety catch off and tenses her finger against the trigger.
    â€˜Come on, Caroline. It’s not a toy.’
    â€˜No? Then what kind of game is this? You said we were coming out to look for Georgie. What the hell were you thinking?’
    â€˜I thought you might enjoy it – take your mind off things.’
    â€˜You thought I might enjoy killing kangaroos? Are you out of your mind?’
    â€˜They’re only animals.’
    â€˜We’re only animals, as you’ve just illustrated so brilliantly.’
    I need to take a leak, so I slowly turn away and unzip my trousers. It’s a while before I manage; not that easy when someone is