Part 1: The New Norfolk Delivery
"Oh, just keep moving, would you!" The words escaped my lips more sharply than I intended as I nudged Gladys towards the truck, my patience fraying at the edges.
"I am moving!" Gladys retorted, her voice laced with irritation that mirrored my own.
The front door of the truck protested with a loud squeak as I yanked it open, a sound that seemed to echo the strain of the moment. Hoisting myself into the front seat, I took a moment to adjust the mirrors and seat, movements that were precise and deliberate, an attempt to impose some control over our hasty departure. Each adjustment was a small assertion of order, a minor victory in the battle against the disarray that threatened to overwhelm us.
The sound of the passenger door slamming shut jolted me from my thoughts, a harsh punctuation to Gladys's entry beside me. I turned to glare at her, the frustration boiling over. Her carelessness seemed to symbolise the broader discord between us. If she continued in this vein, the journey ahead loomed as an ominous prediction of conflicts yet to surface. "Sorry," she offered, a word that felt hollow in the expanse of the truck’s cab.
I rolled my eyes and turned away, facing the road ahead as I muttered under my breath, "No, you're not." The words were barely audible, a whispered testament to my skepticism. I knew all too well the dance of apologies and accusations that we had mastered over the years, a choreography of conflict and reconciliation that seemed destined to repeat.
The truck's engine churned and sprang to life with a rattle that seemed to echo through the very core of my being. It was a sound laden with foreboding, a harbinger of the uncertain journey that lay ahead of us.
"Do you really think we should?" Gladys's voice pierced the heavy silence that had enveloped us, her words laced with doubt and fear. I could hear the tremor in her voice, a clear indication of the inner conflict she was grappling with. It mirrored my own apprehension, the gnawing uncertainty that threatened to consume me.
I gulped, a physical manifestation of my resignation to whatever fate now awaited us. The weight of the decision pressed down on me. What choice do we have? The question echoed in my mind, a rhetorical reminder of the dire situation we found ourselves in. Luke was right. We're involved already. The realisation settled in with a chilling finality, the knowledge that our involvement had irrevocably entangled us in a web from which there was no easy escape. If we don't cover it up, we'll end up in prison for sure. The thought was a stark one, filled with the cold dread of a future marred by bars and the loss of freedom. Even if we managed to persuade the police we had no involvement in the murder, the logical part of my brain reasoned, there was no plausible explanation we could offer for not contacting the authorities immediately. The implications of our inaction were as damning as the act itself.
"We have to," I told Gladys, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging inside me. The words were simple, yet they carried the weight of my grim resolve. It was a declaration of the path we had chosen, fraught with risks and moral ambiguity, yet seemingly the only avenue open to us.
The small truck rolled effortlessly out of the driveway, the motion smooth and almost eerily serene. We moved down the street, each turn of the wheels taking us further from the life we once knew, towards a destination unknown. As we approached the first T-junction, my actions mirrored the decisiveness of our choice. Without indicating, I pulled sharply to the right. The absence of the turn signal was a small rebellion, a minor deviation from the rules that mirrored the much larger transgression we were embarking upon.
"Beatrix!" screeched Gladys, her voice slicing through the hum of the truck's engine like a knife. "Where are you going? You're going the wrong way," she accused, her tone heavy with exasperation. I could feel her eyes on me, wide with incredulity, as if I had suddenly decided to drive us off a cliff.
"Huh?" I shrugged, feigning ignorance. "Wasn't Claremont on the list?" I asked, my voice laced with a hint of defiance. I knew exactly what I was doing, steering us away from New Norfolk, but I wasn't ready to dive into the whys and wherefores of my avoidance.
"Yeah, but we should be going to New Norfolk first," Gladys replied, waving the manifest around like it was a map to buried treasure. Her insistence on following the plan to the letter was both infuriating and admirable in equal measure.
I was well aware that New Norfolk was on the list too, but I couldn't muster the enthusiasm to head that way. Not since I lost the antique shop in a gamble that seemed foolish in hindsight. The thought of revisiting the area, laden with memories of what used to be, filled me with a profound sense of loss. "But Claremont is closer," I insisted stubbornly, clinging to any excuse to delay the inevitable.
Gladys's expression morphed into one of seriousness. Yet, I couldn't help but chuckle softly at the sight. My sister, trying to adopt a stern demeanour, often resembled a squirmy fish out of water. It was a look that was more endearing than intimidating, betraying the warmth and concern that lay beneath her surface of seriousness.
"Technically, yes," Gladys began, her voice adopting a tone of reluctant concession. "But if we go the back way to New Norfolk first, we can loop around along the river, do Claremont, and then continue down for the Moonah delivery," she explained, her smugness evident in the lift of her eyebrows. Her strategy, laid out with such confidence, was irrefutably logical, a fact that irked me more than I cared to admit.
Reluctantly, I steered the truck into the next roundabout, feeling a mix of frustration and resignation as I completed a full circle to exit the way we had come. I sighed heavily, the sound filled with a mixture of defeat and begrudging respect. I hated to admit it, but Gladys's logic made sense. Her ability to navigate both the physical roads and the emotional landscapes of our relationship with such deftness was a constant reminder of the delicate balance we maintained as sisters.
"Hey, look!" yelled Gladys, her voice slicing through the tense silence that had enveloped the cabin of our truck. Her sudden outburst jerked me from my reverie. "The truck is gone. Luke must have taken it through the Portal already."
I leaned forward instinctively, my head turning toward Luke's house as we passed. The mere mention of the Portal sent a thrill of fear and anticipation coursing through me. It was a reminder of the thin veil between our world and the unknown that we were flirting with. As my gaze drifted, so too did the truck, veering dangerously to the left with my diverted attention.
"Beatrix!" screeched Gladys, her voice sharp with panic. The urgency in her tone snapped me back to the present, but my reaction came a fraction too late. I pulled the truck sharply back to the right, an attempt to correct my lapse in concentration, but the damage was done. The corner of the truck clipped the side mirror of a parked car, detaching it with an ease that belied the gravity of the mistake.
"Shit," I muttered, a mixture of frustration and resignation in my voice. Through the rearview mirror, I watched the detached mirror fly down the road, tumbling into the ditch in a sad ballet of consequence. My foot hit the brake instinctively, the truck decelerating quickly under my command, but Gladys's next words halted me further.
"No. Don't stop," she said, her eyes wide with panic, darting erratically as if the act of looking could somehow alter our reality. "I don't think anybody saw us," she added, her voice a high-pitched whisper of hope and fear.
"I really think—" I began, my mind racing with thoughts of accountability and the potential for redemption, but Gladys cut me off.
"Beatrix, you have blood on your clothes. We can't stop!" Her words were a cold splash of reality, jolting me with the awareness of our appearance and the dire implications it carried. I glanced down at my jeans, the evidence of our earlier ordeal stark against the fabric. Gladys was right. Again. The visual confirmation of my stained clothes was a visceral reminder of the stakes at play.
"Watch the road!" yelled Gladys, her command snapping me back to the immediate danger. The truck swayed beneath my hands as I fought to regain control, each movement a battle against the weight of our actions and their consequences.
"Gee, you're such a terrible driver," mumbled Gladys from the passenger seat, her words wrapped in the thick tension that had settled between us like an unwelcome fog.
"Me! A terrible driver?" I snapped back, the edges of my patience fraying as my nerves wound tighter, a coiled spring ready to snap under the weight of our impending actions. The irony of her accusation, given our current predicament, sparked a defensive fire within me. "I'm not the one who knocked down a dozen motorcycles," I teased, my words laced with a forced levity I hoped might diffuse the growing pressure simmering beneath the surface of my composure.
"I did that once," defended Gladys, her voice tinged with indignation. "And that was a long time ago." Her protest, a mix of defiance and embarrassment, was a feeble attempt to salvage her pride from the wreckage of past mistakes.
"Hmph," I scoffed loudly, allowing my skepticism to colour the moment. "It was last year." The reminder served as a barbed retort, a verbal jab meant to puncture the seriousness of our situation with a momentary distraction. Yet, the humour fell flat, overshadowed by the weight of our current escapade.
"Just keep going," said Gladys curtly, her command slicing through the remnants of our banter with the sharpness of a blade.
I bit my lower lip, a physical barrier to the thoughts clamouring for release, thoughts that, if spoken, would only serve to deepen the chasm of our anxieties. They wouldn't have helped our plight, I reminded myself. "Okay," I accepted with a resigned sigh. "We'll keep going." The acknowledgment was heavy with the weight of our shared burden. We had, after all, been involved in far worse crimes already today to worry about a broken side mirror. The magnitude of our earlier actions cast a long shadow over the triviality of traffic misdemeanours, a compelling reminder of the dark path we had chosen to walk.
We continued our way along the back road, the journey marked by an oppressive silence that enveloped us like a shroud. The only interruption came when we stopped to allow Gladys to throw up in the ditch. The act, so raw and human, served as a visceral reminder of the stress and fear that gnawed at our insides. Watching her, a pang of sympathy mixed with my own roiling discomfort. The tension, the fear, and the uncertainty of what lay ahead were not just abstract concepts but had manifested in the most tangible of ways.
As Gladys returned to the truck, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, the silence resumed, a silent pact to press on despite the turmoil that churned within us. The road stretched out before us, a narrow ribbon of asphalt that seemed to lead further away from the life we once knew.
"Welcome to New Norfolk," Gladys announced, a hint of irony in her voice as she read aloud the town’s welcoming sign. My response was far from welcoming, though. I swallowed hard, the action more of a struggle than it should have been. Strong tingles raced up my arms, an unwelcome sensation that heralded the onset of jitters threatening to overtake my mind. My relationship with New Norfolk had become strained, to say the least, ever since the antique shop had closed. It was a place teeming with memories, both good and bad, and now, even the sight of the welcome sign felt like a visceral punch to the gut.
Watching Gladys's fingers become increasingly fidgety, tearing tiny pieces off the corners of the manifest in minuscule portions, did nothing to ease my growing discomfort.
"What's the address?" I managed to ask, my voice steadier than I felt.
"Oh... um..." Gladys hesitated, her distraction evident as she tried to smooth the crumpled sheet of paper against her thigh. The sight of her struggling with the manifest, a simple piece of paper now embodying our shared anxiety, was enough to fray my already thin patience.
"Gladys!" I snapped, the corners of my mouth pulling into a tight pout. My frustration wasn't just with her, but with the whole situation, with the tangled web of emotions that New Norfolk evoked within me.
"27 Bettong Road," Gladys blurted out suddenly, her voice a mix of haste and surprise.
"Shit!" The word escaped my lips before I could stop it. It was like a bolt of lightning, illuminating the dark corners of my apprehension with stark clarity.
Gladys gasped, her reaction echoing my own shock. "Isn't that Uncle Lance's house?" she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.
"Yeah," I confirmed, my voice heavy. "It is." Uncle Lance, our mother's brother, loomed large in our family's history, a figure associated with both warmth and conflict. I hadn't seen him for nearly eighteen months, not since that fateful Christmas before last. The memory of that holiday was vivid in my mind, a chaotic blend of festive joy shattered by vehement disagreement. Uncle Lance and Aunt Amy's quarrel with our mother had been explosive, the kind of family drama that leaves scars long after the shouting has faded.
Gladys and I had tried to remain neutral, to stay out of the fray, but the aftermath had been unavoidable. After Uncle Lance and Aunt Amy had stormed out, our mother's edict had been clear and non-negotiable: we were to cut all contact with them. And I, at least, had complied with her demands, a decision that now seemed both a lifetime ago and just yesterday, all at once.
The realisation that our delivery would take us directly to Uncle Lance's doorstep was a jolt back to reality, a reminder of the complex web of family ties and the emotional landmines they often entailed. It was as if fate, with a sense of irony, had decided to thrust us back into the very heart of unresolved family tensions, forcing us to confront the past we had tried so diligently to avoid.
Gladys glanced across at me, her eyes flickering with a mix of hope and desperation. "Maybe we can leave their package in the letter box?" she questioned.
"I don't think so, Gladys," I replied, my voice steady, but my frown deepening as I considered the logistics of her suggestion. The packages we were dealing with were far too large for any standard letterbox, a reality that seemed to escape Gladys in her quest for a simple solution. "I don't remember seeing any packages small enough to fit in a letterbox," I added, hoping to gently steer her towards the reality of our situation.
Gladys sighed, a sound heavy with resignation. "We'll just sneak up and leave it on the front doorstep then," she said, her tone suggesting that this was the next best plan, however flawed it might be.
"We?" I scoffed, unable to hide my amusement at the thought. "I think you mean you," I smirked, shifting the responsibility squarely onto her shoulders. It was a playful jab, but one that carried an undercurrent of serious expectation.
"What!" Gladys retorted, her voice rising to a pitchy shriek, a mixture of shock and indignation at my suggestion. It was clear that the idea of approaching Uncle Lance's house alone was not what she had in mind.
As we neared our destination, my attempt to bring the truck to a more dignified stop failed spectacularly. The front wheels bounced up the curb as they turned, sending a jolt through the vehicle that rattled both of us. The truck shook sideways when the wheels rolled back down, a less than graceful move that did little to calm my nerves.
"What are you doing? I'm sure his house is further down the road," said Gladys, her confusion evident as she struggled to make sense of my erratic driving.
"It is," I agreed, my voice calm as I finally brought the truck to a stop, albeit in a less than ideal location. My admission did little to clear the confusion from Gladys's expression.
"Then what?" she asked, her confusion deepening into frustration.
I sighed. "Well, if we're trying to cover up a murder, I'm not going to pull a truck up outside the front of their house. That's way too obvious."
Gladys glared at me, her frustration turning to anger as the implications of my plan—and our actions—began to sink in. I met her gaze, unflinching.
I nudged her towards the door, my gesture firm but not unkind. "Just do it, Gladys," I commanded her, my voice carrying an authority that brooked no argument. It was a directive born of necessity, a reminder that the stakes were far too high for hesitation or half-measures.
Reluctantly, Gladys opened the passenger door, her movements hesitant as if each step took a monumental effort. She slid her way to the ground, her posture betraying a mixture of apprehension and resolve. "What kind of parcel is it?" she looked back at me, her eyes searching for some reassurance or perhaps seeking to share the burden of our current endeavour.
"I don't know," I replied, my voice tinged with a mixture of frustration and resignation. "Read the labels."
Gladys stalked away with a huff, her silhouette framed against the backdrop of our grim undertaking. Her departure left me alone with my thoughts, a solitude that felt both oppressive and liberating in its silence.
As I sat in the truck's cabin, my gaze drifted across the cab, out through the still open passenger door, an unwitting portal to the world outside that seemed both close and infinitely distant. The metal door of the truck's back groaned as Gladys pulled it open, a discordant symphony to accompany our clandestine mission.
I waited, the seconds stretching into what felt like an eternity, before returning my gaze to the front, my attention now drawn to my phone. It sat perched in its console, an inanimate witness to the turmoil that churned within me. The device, so often a lifeline to the outside world, now seemed like a beacon of uncertainty. Should I message Leigh? The question echoed in my mind, a tantalising temptation to reach out, to seek solace or perhaps guidance in this maelstrom of disturbance I had found myself in. Is it wise for me to tell him what had happened? The dilemma gnawed at me, a battle between the desire for connection and the fear of exposing ourselves further, of unravelling the fragile thread that held our secret together.
The weight of the decision lay heavy on my shoulders, a burden that felt both personal and shared. To involve Leigh was to widen the circle of our conspiracy, to potentially draw another into the web of deceit and danger we had woven. Yet, the isolation of our plight, the overwhelming sense of being adrift in a sea of moral ambiguity, made the prospect of confiding in someone else all the more tempting.
The passenger side door closed with a resounding bang, jolting me from my reverie like a gunshot. I cringed involuntarily, my heart skipping a beat as I witnessed Gladys's clumsy misstep over the gutter and onto the footpath. My body sighed deeply, as despair clutched me. Watching her stumble, it became painfully clear—there was no way Gladys was going to be able to make this delivery without drawing attention to herself, without risking everything we were so desperately trying to keep hidden.
Leaning across the cab, I reached for the passenger side window, winding it down with a sense of urgency that mirrored the racing of my heart. "Hey, Gladys," I called out, my voice carrying a blend of concern and caution. Gladys stopped in her tracks, turning to face me, her expression a mix of confusion and anticipation.
"You can't be seen. You're supposed to be a man, remember?" The words tumbled out, partly in jest, but underlined by a grave seriousness. The disguise, the masquerade we had concocted, was fragile at best. The entire premise of these deliveries hinged on maintaining the illusion that Joel had completed them, a threadbare veil of deception that stood between us and catastrophe. If anyone were to spot two women undertaking Joel's rounds, our cover would be irrevocably shattered, leaving us exposed to the relentless gaze of police scrutiny—a prospect that sent shivers down my spine.
As Gladys resumed her cautious trek down the street, my foot tapped a staccato rhythm against the brake pedal, a physical outlet for the nervous energy that thrummed through me. My gaze flickered back to my phone, resting innocuously in its console. The temptation to reach out, to send a message to Leigh, gnawed at me with renewed intensity. Should I do it? The question circled in my mind like a bird of prey, its talons poised to strike. My hand crept closer to the device, drawn as if by a magnetic pull.
The phone's screen burst into life, vibrating agitatedly against the plastic console, a sudden intrusion into the tense silence of the truck's cabin. My eyes widened in surprise, and my heartbeat quickened, the unexpected buzz slicing through the fog of my anxiety like a knife. It was a message from Leigh, his name flashing across the screen in stark, unyielding letters.
Glancing quickly out the front windscreen, I noted that Gladys was still absent, her figure swallowed by the distance. My breathing deepened, each inhale sharp and each exhale shuddering, as I reached out with a trembling hand to pick up the phone. Swiping the screen, I hesitated for a heartbeat before pressing the notification, the action fraught with a mix of fear and anticipation.
Leigh: We need to meet up. Urgently.
I gasped, my heart rate spiking as a thousand thoughts raced through my mind. Does he know about Joel? Does he know what we are doing right now? Am I in danger? The questions tumbled over one another, each more unsettling than the last. Taking a deep breath, I held it, my fingers hovering over the keyboard as I attempted to compose a reply that betrayed none of my inner turmoil.
Beatrix: Sure. What's up?
Too casual? I second-guessed myself, the words on the screen suddenly seeming inadequate, too light for the weight of the situation. The possibility that Leigh's message was unrelated to our current predicament loomed large, yet the risk of tipping him off to our dire circumstances was a gamble I wasn't sure I was ready to take. With a mixture of resignation and defiance, I pressed send, inhaling another deep breath as I awaited his reply, my anxiety a tangible presence in the cramped space of the truck.
Leigh: Usual @ 2
A loud whoosh of air escaped my cracked lips as I exhaled, though the relief was short-lived. His reply, cryptic and devoid of detail, did nothing to quell the storm of worry brewing within me. My fingers danced over the keyboard, the word "Danger?" taking form before I quickly erased it, fearing it might reveal too much, might invite scrutiny we could ill afford.
Beatrix: Okay
I settled on the simplest of responses, a single word that carried the weight of my apprehension and the echo of my resolve.
The sudden swing of the passenger door broke the tense silence like a clap of thunder, startling me from my anxious reverie. My hands, already jittery from the day's stress, fumbled in a desperate attempt to secure my phone, which slipped from my grasp and landed with a thump at my feet—a minor calamity in the midst of our ongoing storm.
"Let's get out of here," Gladys panted, her voice laced with a breathlessness that spoke volumes of the urgency she felt. The door slammed shut with a finality that echoed ominously within the confines of the truck.
Hastily scooping up my phone, I wedged it tightly between my thighs, a makeshift safeguard against further mishaps. With my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribcage, I turned the key in the ignition, and the truck lurched forward, a mechanical beast spurred into motion by our dire circumstances.
"No," Gladys interjected firmly, her tone brooking no argument. "Turn us around and go the other way."
Her sudden directive, delivered with such conviction, sparked a surge of suspicion within me. Has Gladys done something that will compromise us? The question wormed its way through my mind, a seed of doubt taking root amidst our escape. Her insistence on avoiding a particular route, on eschewing the path that lay before us, suggested a knowledge—or an action—she was keen to keep hidden.
"Safer not to drive past their house," Gladys offered by way of explanation, her words sparse and shrouded in a vagueness that did little to assuage my burgeoning fears. Her reluctance to elaborate, to offer any semblance of detail, only served to heighten the tension that vibrated between us like a taut wire.
In that moment, a decision presented itself, as clear as the road that stretched out ahead. I chose not to press my sister for answers, to not delve deeper into the potential mire of her actions. Perhaps ignorance was a form of bliss, a shield against the full brunt of our predicament. Besides, the practicalities of our situation loomed large; Gladys was essential to the completion of our mission, to the delivery of the parcels that were our burden to bear. I'd better not send her over the edge completely, I reasoned, a pragmatic voice cutting through the fog of my apprehensions.
Part 2: The Claremont Delivery
The truck's tires hummed against the asphalt, a steady rhythm that accompanied our journey as the road unfurled alongside the river. I clung to this semblance of tranquility, eager for any respite from the storm of thoughts swirling in my mind, especially those provoked by Leigh's messages. However, the constant, nervous twitching of Gladys's hands, a silent symphony of anxiety, persistently invaded the edge of my vision, a relentless reminder of our shared tension.
Unable to ignore the distraction any longer, my patience frayed to its limit, I finally snapped. "Would you stop that already?" The sharpness in my voice cut through the cab's quiet like a knife.
"Sorry," Gladys murmured, her voice a mixture of apology and stress. "I'm just a bit anxious."
"I know! I've been watching your hands fidget for the last ten minutes," I retorted, my frustration evident. The air between us was charged with an unspoken understanding of the gravity of our situation, yet acknowledging it only seemed to amplify the anxiety.
Gladys exhaled deeply, the sound heavy with apprehension. "Do you think it'll actually make any difference?" she ventured, her question hanging between us like a spectre of doubt.
"What do you mean?" I probed, genuinely puzzled by her line of inquiry.
"Well… I mean… If these people are finding their packages outside their front door, what are they going to tell the police?" Gladys's query was laced with a newfound clarity, her words painting a picture of our efforts as potentially futile.
"Huh?" I responded, still struggling to grasp the full implications of her point.
"I mean if nobody actually sees Joel, then there will be no evidence that he actually made the deliveries," Gladys elaborated with a hint of frustration. "So, really, this whole exercise doesn't get us in the clear at all." Her logic, once laid bare, cast a shadow over our meticulously laid plans, suggesting that our actions might be in vain.
My heart skipped a beat, a silent acknowledgment of the validity in Gladys's words. Is Gladys right? Is this actually helping us? Doubt gnawed at the edges of my resolve, yet a deeper intuition suggested that our current predicament was merely the precursor to more significant challenges. Regardless, my gut told me that we were going to find ourselves in far greater trouble than this before the police were on our trail.
"Hopefully it will keep them distracted," I replied, opting for a response that masked my own burgeoning fears. It was a half-truth, offered in the hope of providing some solace, even as my mind raced with the possible outcomes of our actions.
And with that, the cab returned to silence, a thick, palpable stillness that enveloped us as we continued our journey.
As we approached our next destination, mirroring the cautious distance we had maintained in New Norfolk, I brought the truck to a halt a safe hundred metres away from the expected target.
"Can you do this one?" Gladys turned to me, her voice laced with a plea that tugged at my heartstrings. Her eyes, wide and beseeching, sought refuge from the task at hand, a reprieve I found myself unable to grant.
"No," I replied, the word sharper than I intended, a blade cutting through the fragile atmosphere between us. I softened, attempting to cloak my refusal in a veneer of support. "Look, all you have to do is leave it on their front doorstep and come straight back. I'll be here waiting for you," I assured her, my tone a blend of encouragement and desperation.
Gladys swung her door open with a force that spoke volumes of her frustration, and jumped down from the truck. "I still don't think it'll matter," she retorted with a snark, her words a reflection of the hopelessness that seemed to shadow our every move.
"Hey," I called out, an instinctive response to her defeatism. Gladys looked up at me, her face etched with seriousness, a pout forming that was more a mask of her inner turmoil than any childlike sulk.
"Either way, delivering these packages is better than us being stuck with them," I reasoned, my words carrying the weight of our grim reality. I mustered a smile, though it felt as brittle as thin ice, a fragile barrier against the cold depths of our predicament.
Part 3 - The Moonah Delivery
"Last one," I announced, managing a smile that felt like a small victory, a light at the end of a long, dark tunnel.
"Thank God for that," Gladys echoed, her relief palpable as she buckled her seatbelt, her movements deliberate, as if securing herself for more than just the drive.
"You haven't enjoyed playing delivery girl then?" I couldn't resist teasing, an attempt to inject a moment of levity into the surreal situation we found ourselves in.
Gladys's response was a glare, sharp enough to cut through the tension, yet I caught the underlying fatigue in her eyes.
"So, that's a no," I said, a half-hearted chuckle escaping me as I answered my own question, acknowledging the absurdity of finding humour in our dire circumstances.
"Just drive, Beatrix," Gladys sighed, the weight of her exhaustion evident in her voice. It was a resignation, an acknowledgment that our ordeal was far from over, even with the deliveries almost behind us.
A smug smile momentarily crossed my face as the truck pulled away from the curb, a fleeting sense of accomplishment. However, as we travelled in silence, that smile gradually faded, replaced by a furrow of concern that creased my forehead. My mind, unbidden, drifted back to the messages from Leigh that I had been trying so hard to push to the back of my mind. Why did Leigh want to meet so desperately? The question gnawed at me, unsettling in its urgency. Leigh's usual precision with words meant that his use of 'urgent' couldn't be anything but significant.
I stole a glance at Gladys, noting how she sat motionless beside me, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as if holding onto the momentary peace the silence afforded us. Her gaze was fixed through the window, lost in the blur of the world passing by.
"You'd better send Luke a message and let him know that we're almost done," I suggested, the words carrying a mixture of relief and anticipation for the end of our task.
Gladys, lost in her own thoughts, offered no verbal response. Instead, she reached for her phone with a sense of resignation, her fingers moving swiftly over the screen. "Done," she announced, placing her phone back in the console before resuming her silent vigil out the window.
Within minutes, the shrill ring of Gladys's phone cut through the cab's silence, an unexpected intrusion. She answered with a promptness that betrayed her eagerness for any distraction. "Hey, Luke. What's up?" Her voice, tinged with a forced cheeriness, contrasted sharply with the weariness etched on her face.
I stole glances at Gladys, torn between the need to focus on the bustling road ahead and the curiosity piqued by Luke's call. I was on the verge of asking her about the conversation when Luke's voice, amplified by the phone's speaker, filled the truck.
"Hey, Gladys. I forgot to ask you earlier. Can you and Beatrix please collect me a large supply of shelving?" His request, so mundane under normal circumstances, now seemed like an insurmountable task, another weight added to our already burdened shoulders.
"In our truck?" Gladys's voice held a note of disbelief, as if the reality of our situation had suddenly become even more absurd.
"Yes. That's probably the best idea," Luke's reply was practical, oblivious to the sighs of resignation it elicited from us.
Gladys paused, the hesitation in her voice mirroring the hesitation in her heart. "I don't have any more money to spare, Luke. I have the next mortgage payment coming out in a few days," she confessed.
"Don't worry. I have money," I blurted out, louder than intended, a rash offer spurred by a desire to keep things moving, to prevent any further delays in our already complicated situation.
"How do you have money?" Gladys turned to stare at me, her surprise evident.
"Never mind that," I replied quickly, regret lacing my words the moment they left my mouth. The offer had been instinctual, a knee-jerk reaction to the immediate problem, yet it had opened a door to questions I wasn't prepared to answer. "Let's just get this shit done," I concluded.
Gladys gave an indifferent shrug, as she turned back to her phone. “Yeah, Luke. Beatrix has money. She'll pay for it,” she declared.
"Anything else?" I yelled out before I could stop myself.
"I also need you to print me some simple instructions for pouring a slab of concrete for a shed," Luke replied.
“Huh?" Gladys asked, her face baked in confusion.
"Gladys!" I couldn't keep the snap from my voice. "The Bunnings store will be able to give us something. We'll ask them while we're there getting the shelving."
"Oh yeah," Gladys finally conceded, ending the call without another word to Luke, her social niceties forgotten in the whirlwind of our day.
"You're not going to say goodbye?" My chuckle was half-hearted.
"Huh?" Gladys's confusion was almost comical, a brief interlude of levity. "Oh," she realised her mistake too late, shouting an apology to the already silent phone.
My eyes rolled for what felt like the hundredth time that day. "Gee. You sure you have the volume loud enough?" The tease was light, but it carried an undercurrent of the stress we were both navigating, a stress that seemed to manifest in petty irritations and snappy exchanges.
Gladys's response was to pout and turn away, her face once again lost to the passing scenery outside her window, a silent retreat into her thoughts.
"What was that?" I asked, straining to catch the mumbled words she had directed out the window, away from me.
"Nothing," she called back, her voice a mix of defiance and resignation. The word hung between us, a placeholder for all the unsaid things, the worries, and fears that we were both trying so hard to keep at bay.
