Someone’s been killing my goats and I almost want to shake their hand.  

The earth crunches beneath my feet, scorched and scarred by the sun’s soupy, apathetic glare. The grass is a thousand shades of brown, brittle and spindly, like a sea of tiny needled sea urchins. I walk towards the lump in the middle of the paddock. It does not move. I walk on, ignoring the flies and the heat and the smell. 

I walk on towards that lump and still, it does not move. 

The air vibrates around me with the hum of crickets and the shimmer of heatwaves that form mirages of black ink on the horizon. I’ve always loved summer, but in this moment, it feels oppressive — a hot breath down my neck, a greasy cat winding its way around my ankles. The cat shimmies closer, begging for scraps.

I draw closer to the lump, and now I can see what had Bridie screaming and running back into the house like a cat on fire. Barnabas the goat is a bloated mess, strange rectangular irises already milky in death. The stench is a solid impenetrable wall. The blowflies that cluster and swarm around the open wound in his side are a relentless presence, a symphony of decay. The gash is black with dried blood, a clean deep slash long since coagulated. There are no teeth marks, no sign of animal prints. My mind zips to Bridie, but she wouldn’t do this. She loves Barnabus more than me. No, this is no creature or kid sister. 

This is a knife wound. 

This is a message. 

I turn back towards the house and tramp away through the prickly bushland, away from Barnabus and his entourage of flies. Another one. 

This is the third in as many weeks, another grave to dig in the goat cemetery. Every dead animal is another debt in the ledger, another string cut from the noose holding me here. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry. Back at the house, I shuck my boots off and slide into the coolness of the living room. 

‘It happened again, Gran,’ I say by way of greeting, sloughing the red dust from my clothes. This fucking red dirt that clings to everything, works its way into every crack and crevice. I find it in my ears, my nostrils, even under my toenails; this soil that pervades and taunts me. 

Gran gives a toothless huff in response, curling further into the couch and the layers of patterned material that shelter her like a papery spider in a web. She isn't much for words these days. I think back to the green parks and bustling streets of Sydney, far from these burning sands and obstinate goats, wishing more than ever to be back there. Safe, ensconced in the nestle of books and academic surety. I had earned my place at St. Agnes’ School for Girls with hard work and long hours. Words got me out of Sunrise, but they can't save me now. 

Not from this shitty little town that does not even merit a dot on a map, lost in the endless plains of the desert. Some little fabricated mining village that had not even breathed its first breath before the opals ran out and the inhabitants abandoned their freshly built houses. Now, we are the last ghosts haunting its streets.  

Well, not the last. 

“That girl was here,” Gran mutters, not looking up from her nest of blankets. I don’t ask who. That girl could only be one person. 

“Oh yeah?” I ask, keeping my tone flat. “What did she want?”

Gran doesn't answer, only hums a little tune under her breath. I shouldn’t have bothered. I know exactly what Margaux Dubois wants.

“Do you want anything from the store? I need to pick up a new shovel to bury Barnabas.”

“What happened to the old one?” Gran asks, voice creaky with disuse.

“Cracked the handle on a rock.”

Gran says nothing. We are done here. I gather my keys and look around. The house, built in the mining rush, was once perfectly white. Now, the red dirt is seeping through the tiles and staining everything a determined shade of ochre. I’ve scrubbed till bleach nearly melted my fingerprints off, but nothing will shift it. 

Outside, the heat hits me like a punch. The smell of parched sand is thick in the air, tickling my nose. I walk around the back to the shed where the other goats are penned in. Bridie is huddled in a corner with Lucy, her favourite goat. A tear tracks down my sister's sunburnt face, eventually dropping to mingle in the dust of Lucy’s pelt. My stomach clenches at the sight. Barnabus was her second favourite. 

“Hey,” I say as I crouch down next to her. “How's Lucy?”

“Okay,” she mumbles. “She doesn't know where he's gone.”

“Barnabas?” 

She nods. In moments like this, I wish I had my mother’s soft maternal instincts. The right words to put a young girl at ease. But if I have any, they elude me now. I have spent my life trying to get away from this place, these creatures, and Bridie’s love for it all is utterly foreign to me. 

“He’s gone to goat heaven,” I say lamely, hoping the idea of fluffy clouds and endless grass will comfort her. 

“Goat’s don't go to heaven, silly,” she says. “They just die.”

This stumps me. Bridie has seen too much for her age. She knows better than anyone what death looks like. 

“What does Lucy think?” I ask.

“Lucy is scared. She thinks she’s next.”

A shiver skitters down my spine and the hair on my neck rises despite the heat. How much do these goats know? How much does Bridie know? 

“Well, I’ll make sure she’s safe,” I say, though this seems like a pretty big promise to make when goats are getting stabbed weekly. Bridie doesn’t take these things lightly. I turn towards the gate, but my sister locks a tiny dirty hand onto my wrist before I can leave.

“Can I sleep with them tonight, Gwen? Watch over them?” Her dark eyes pin me, pooling with tears. I almost relent, but the thought of Bridie with a black bloody gash in her side like Barnabus stops me.

“No, sweetie. You’ve got a nice bed inside. I’ll check on Lucy and the others before I go to sleep, ok?” 

Bridie drops her hand, her face closing. She turns away and wriggles angrily into Lucy’s warmth, clearly done with me. I can only sigh. This is the thanks I get for keeping her safe.

Out the front, I swing myself into the cabin of Billie the truck. She’s a lurching, thirsty thing, but manages to take me from farm to town without too much complaint. Come on old girl, I whisper, and she obliges. Billie starts with a sputter, engine roaring to life beneath me. We roll down the long drive and turn onto the only road leading into Sunrise. One way in, one way out. With Bowie blasting on the radio and the windows all the way down, I can almost breathe. 

Almost. 

The town comes into view slowly, then all at once. It's a lonely main road and a sea of new buildings already succumbing to the process of dereliction. When the mines dried up, so did the people. Now all that's left are the stragglers. The people who won't leave, or can't. The old, the stubborn, the ones too buried in debt to find a way out, the ones who have made it their mission to die on this land. I never thought I’d count myself as one of these people, but here we are. My parents had been promised profit during the boom, but now our farm is worth as much as the dirt it’s built on. 

I park the old truck and climb out, sweat sticking my thighs to the leather seat. One general store, one pub, one pharmacy and one tiny police station. This is Sunrise. That and rows of shiny empty houses waiting for miners that would never come. They have fallen into disrepair in the years since, but they still reflect the beating sun in swathes of blinding white. 

I make for the general store. Pauline and Roger could use my business. Sunrise Supplies beams out from the sign, red dirt making the happy sunbeams seem rusted over with age. The door swings open with a little ding that alerts the wrinkled old woman behind the counter to my presence. I wave a little hello, but she ducks her head, pretending she hasn't seen me. 

“Hello Pauline,” I say, despite her obvious displeasure at seeing me. “How's the old ball and chain?”

“You're not welcome here, girl,” she says gruffly, ignoring my question. I should be used to this, but it still stings.

“But my money is, right? Listen, I just need a shovel and I’ll be out of your way. Have any in?” Pauline eyes me with distaste before grunting in assent. She needs the sale and we both know it. Even the money of Gwendoline Jones is welcome in these trying times.

“Round the back,” she mutters, before spitting her mouthful of sunflower seeds into the waste paper basket.

“Nice to be home,” I mutter before circling around the shelves. Pauline might be many things, but she knows the layout of this store better than the contents of her mind. I’m about to grab the first sturdy shovel I see when a low, sweet voice grinds me to a halt.

“Gwen.” 

I know that voice too well. A sizable part of me is compelled to drop the shovel and run. Instead, I turn around and meet Margaux’s eyes. She’s as striking as ever. This should come as no surprise to me, but for a moment, I see what others must when they first meet her. Her hair is longer than last time, all honey-gold in the store’s fluorescents. Her long legs are tanned under denim cutoffs, eyes the shade of a perfect summer sky. 

She is sickening. Stunning. 

“Heard you were back in town,” she says, stepping towards me in the aisle. “But not from you.”

“Yeah,” I say, failing to meet her eyes. “Just got home a few weeks ago.”

“Should have come and said hello.”

“I’ve been busy,” I reply, twirling the shovel in my hands. She nods, suddenly solemn.

“I’m so sorry about your parents. Everyone’s devastated about Anna and Tom.”

The sound of my parents’ names on her lips nearly topples me over. I can’t think of them now. Not now when I’m barely together as it is. 

“Yeah,” I say again, hoping that the break in my voice can be chalked up to dust. 

“I just can't believe your back,” she says incredulously, eyeing me up like I had done her a few moments before. “I actually stopped by the farm earlier today, but I couldn't get a straight answer out of Gran.”

A tight smile stretches across my lips. “She gets loopier every year.”

Margaux returns my smile, almost tentatively. “Now that you’re back, I thought you might want to go to Hangman’s Leap with me. Like we used to.” Hangman’s Leap. How could she bring that place up? 

“I can’t…” The words drop out of my mouth stiffly. Her gaze cuts to mine, blue eyes sharp. “I’m sorry, I have to go.” I move to walk around her, shovel forgotten. 

“Gwen, wait!” Her voice trails behind me as I stride away, Pauline tutting under her breath as she watches me wrench the front door nearly off its handle. The bell tinkles aggressively, too loud in the hot oppressive silence of Main Street. I’m a few steps outside the store before her hand closes around my wrist. 

“Gwen —”

I wrench my arm out of her grasp and turn to face her. “Margaux.”

“I thought… Now that your back —”

“I’m not back,” I retort, and the bite in my voice is as bitter as me. “I’m here to sell the land and as soon as that's done, I'm out.”

She takes me in, head tilting slightly. “And how's that going for you?”

“Oh fantastically, people are lining up to make offers.” She snorts delicately. “I know that doesn't mean that much for you,” I say reproachfully, “but for those of us whose father’s don't own all the mines from here to Sydney, it's somewhat problematic.”

“I can imagine,” she says, a small smile playing on her lips.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing,” she chuckles.“ I just forgot how you could be.”

“And how am I?” It's a question and a challenge all at once. Margaux looks at me, catching my eyes. I forgot for a moment that she knows me all too well, can probably see right through my little act. You’re different now, I tell myself. Her little smile disagrees.

“You’re here,” she replies simply. She sighs and steps towards me, her favourite lilac perfume drifting to me on the hot air. “Look, for whatever it's worth, I’m glad you’re home. I missed you.”

“This isn’t my home,” I say, stepping away. “Not anymore.”