Leah Giarratano - Voodoo Doll

'I don't know.' Suddenly tired of standing so stiffly, she dropped into the suspended swing seat next to her. Scotty sat down beside her. 'It's not so bad,' she continued. 'Better than I thought it would be.'

'I heard your new partner's a Fed.'

'Been checking up on me, Hutchinson?'

'What was his name again – Gloria? Gabrielle? I heard he's a bit, ah, eccentric.'

'Funny. That's the New South Wales Police Force for you, isn't it? Someone doesn't act exactly the same as everyone else and they've got to be a weirdo.' She pushed her feet against the pavers, stopping the movement of the chair. The slight swing of the seat was making her dizzy.

'You're pretty protective of him already,' he said.

'Yeah, well you're being pretty predictable.'

'What does that mean?'

'The whole testosterone thing – mine's bigger than his.' She drained her glass and put it down on the cushion next to her. Scotty picked it up again.

She stood, needing firm ground beneath her. 'I don't want to argue tonight, Scotty. Do you want to go down to the beach before dinner?'

'I'll just get my thongs.'

Scotty unlocked the gate at the rear of the garden and led Jill down the steep, sandy stairway behind the property. Jutting roots from wind-blasted shrubs twisted up through the sand, and she hooked a hand into the waistband of his boardies for balance as they negotiated the shadowy steps.

When they reached the bottom, the bushes gave way onto a sheltered cove. Jill hadn't been down here at night before. The glow from a pale, fat moon washed with every wavelet onto the quiet beach. A couple of anglers, highlighted by moonlight, sat on the rocks to their right. A fragment of their discussion reached Jill as she stepped into the cool sand, carrying her sandals; the distance between them scattered their words in the wind.

The sea air was deliciously cool on her hot cheeks and Jill breathed deeply, padding down to the shoreline. Whipped around by the breeze, she had to keep pushing tendrils of hair from her eyes and mouth. She walked, head down, watching her footprints melt back into the liquid sand at the edge of the ocean. She didn't realise she was smiling.

A shout from the fishermen caused Jill to look up, and she saw Scotty standing there, staring at her. He held her shoes. Huh. She must've dropped them.

'What're you looking at?' She smiled up at him.

With one long stride, he stood immediately before her.

'You're beautiful.'

So quietly. Did he really say that?

He dropped her sandals by his feet. Jill stood immobile in the sand, acutely aware of every sound and movement. Scotty reached out and caught a wayward strand of hair from her face, wrapped it around a finger.

Jill stopped breathing. Suddenly she knew exactly what she wanted. Scott Hutchinson. Now.

'Scotty.' She reached up and wrapped her hands around his neck, pulled his face down to hers. She closed her eyes, her lips parted.

Nothing happened.

Her eyes snapped open. Scotty's mouth was a whisper from hers, his lips curved in a small smile.

'What are you doing?' he said.

'I would've thought that was obvious,' she answered, trying to pull him still closer.

'You know, Jackson,' his mouth almost touched her own, 'we could've been doing this every night for the past year.'

'So, we're doing it now. Shh. Too much talking.'

'Except tonight you've been drinking.'

She dropped her hands, stepped backwards. Suddenly freezing, she wrapped her arms around her body.

'You think I'm drunk?' she said.

'Look, Jill, not drunk, but… wait!'

She snatched up her sandals and strode through the sand.

'I don't want it to be an excuse,' he called after her, 'a mistake. I don't want you to regret this tomorrow and freeze me out. Would you frigging wait a second – you're going the wrong way!'

What was the right way? Humiliated tears rolled down her cheeks. She felt ridiculous and so exposed in this dress. She would never get stuff like this right.

EXTRA POLITE. SHE hated it when they were especially civil to one another.

For her part, Isobel had to be courteous in order to censor the screaming shrew who wanted to tear strips from her husband. How could he go to Cabramatta to look for that psychopath? What else, she wondered, have you been doing that I don't know about? Why did you ever hang around that freak in the first place? Why didn't you kill him when we were at Andy's? Instead, she asked, 'Can I get you a drink of something, hon?' She'd just tucked Charlie in for the night.

'No, that's okay, babe,' he said, mid-lift on a shoulder press using his hand weights. She knew he hated to talk when he was in the middle of a set. Hence her question right now.

'I'll get something later,' he added, his deltoids distended, a vein bulging in his neck.

I'm sure you will, she thought. It usually took three reminders to get Joss to take out the recycling. He'd taken the bottles out four nights in a row now. The hundred-litre recycling bin was full of his empties.

At the mirror in their bathroom, she carefully cleansed her face, pretending not to notice the new creases of worry around her eyes. She toned and moisturised, then brushed her teeth. Please God let them catch him, please God let them catch him. A mental hymn in tune with the rhythm of the electric toothbrush. She gargled the same song.

Tidying the bathroom a little, Isobel thought about the night ahead. She knew she'd find it difficult to sleep – replaying their interview at the police station, Joss's answers, the warnings of the detectives. She wondered whether she should take Charlie up to north Queensland. Probably. But what about Joss? Despite the fact that he'd managed to open up to the police, could she trust him to behave rationally down here alone? And she knew he wouldn't come with her. The inner tussle already tightening her stomach, she reached for the yellow pills at the back of the medicine drawer. Left over from minor surgery, the opiates would get her at least a few hours of dead sleep. She swallowed two with a handful of water from the tap, grimacing when one stuck on the way down.

She pulled on shortie pyjamas and climbed into bed. Twenty minutes later, she was snoring through a magazine on her face.

A hand over her mouth. The blood blasted from her toes to her crown in the split-second before she recognised Joss's face above her own. His eyes hard, unrelenting. Telling her: they are here. No fucking around. It's fight or die.

All without words.

Our baby, his eyes said next. I'm going to get her.

He took his hand from her mouth. Gave her the bat. Remember the lessons.

With the thought of her baby in that man's hands, the strength that ran through Isobel's body left her wanting to bite, tear flesh with her teeth. She positioned herself behind the door. The bat felt spongy in her hands; she felt she could snap it in two. Already furious with the fuckers for taking so long to get to her, she practised seeing the blood spray from a head, wiping it quickly from her eyes to swing again. When the massacre had first started, Joss had been careful to step around the bodies. Even when the mounds at Kibeho had grown so wide that there was nowhere else to walk than over the dead and dying, he would try to avoid treading on a hand or a leg on his way to pull another breathing person out of the pile. By the end of the third day, however, he marched over dead faces, strode through brains, stepped straight onto balls. There was no other way to get around.

Now, Joss moved silently through the darkness of his home, ignoring the hands grappling at his ankles, moving through the body parts. His own hand was finally whole again, holding his knife. He heard it laughing and he smiled back at it, his teeth flashing in the dark.