Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Frank
Title: How a dead stranger cost me a hundred grand
People bang on about neighborly respect in the bush. Bullshit.
The Hendersons have been a thorn in the Bransons’ ass since the day our boots hit this dirt. That barbed-wire fence between us ain’t worth the steel it's made of. Their rot still bleeds through. And the older I get, the worse them useless bastards seem to get.
’Bout three years ago, I’d knocked back half a bottle of Bundy rum before leavin The Rusty Swagman. Shouldn’t have been drivin. I own that. But what else was I gonna do? Walk home? Stuff that.
Road was empty, hot wind blowin dust into my headlights. World was leanin sideways, and my head was full of nothin and everythin. Cattle prices, my empty bed, hunger. Then I hit somethin.
Didn’t even see the bastard till after I heard the thump, and he went over the top of the ute. Made a sound I won’t forget even if I live to a 100, which I bloody won’t.
I climbed out, breathin hard, Bundy rum burnin a hole through my throat. Bloke lay half in the dirt, half on the road. Alive, just. Blood was comin from his nose and ear. Didn’t recognize him, but he was a young fella. Felt bad about that.
Just as I was figurin what to do, headlights swung round the bend, and it was the fuckin Hendersons. Of all the bastards in Queensland to show up, it had to be them.
Not the old man either. Two of the brothers. Big angry lumps with fists like horse hooves. I couldn’t have taken one of ’em sober, let alone both of ’em with Bundy sloshin around my veins.
They jumped out yellin before they even saw the blood on the bloke.
I told ’em he’d stepped out in front of me. They didn’t wanna hear a bar of it. And while we was arguin, the poor bastard stopped breathin. Died right there at our feet.
They said he was one of their farmhands. A drifter their sister was sweet on. Said he’d be missed. Like that was somehow my problem.
They told me to dig his grave. Said it was the decent thing to do.
I wanted to tell ’em to fuck off. But 2-to-1 and drunk ain’t good odds. So I dug that damn dirt that was so hard it fought every shovel. Could barely see straight by the end. Bundy turned my blood toxic.
By the time I rolled the body in the hole, my head was poundin, and my arms were dead.
Then those Henderson bastards hit me with the bombshell. They wanted a hundred K to keep silent. A hundred grand!!! After they’d made me dig that fuckin hole. Said I couldn't cover that one up, not with the blood on my bullbar and the dented bonnet.
A $100,000- for a bloke walkin on the road at night like a bloody idiot.
And they gave me two days to get it. Assholes.
Turns out I could hide it. Cassidy saw the damage next mornin, and I told her I’d hit a roo. Easy. Some of the roos out here are bigger than she is.
My problem wasn’t the story. It was the goddamn grave.
I didn’t remember where it was. That stretch of road was a 100 miles of identical dirt and scrub. Too drunk. Too dark. Too rattled.
So had to pay the Henderson bastards.
But I couldn’t get the money outta Declan. That annoying bastard was always bangin on about us not havin enough money to buy this or pay for that. Naggin about budgets that don’t add up. And 2 days wasn’t enough to raid the secret stash of cash I had hidden.
So I had no choice but to go to Old Man Krinali again. Loan shark. Slimy bastard. Smiled so hard he near choked on his curry when I walked in.
So now you know ’bout the body buried along the highway. Poor bastard deserved better. I’ll own that. But it wasn’t my fault.
And now you know exactly how conniving those Henderson pricks are. Watch out for ’em. If they can screw you over, they will.
So here’s the lesson for ya. If you need to bury someone, make sure nobody’s watchin. ’Cause that asshole will always come back to haunt ya. And I don’t mean the dead guy.
Oh, and by the time you read this, I’ll be dead. So don’t pay that Krinali snake another cent. And tell him I said he can go fuck himself.
Anyway.
That's it.
Frank Branson.