Page 94 of Into These Eyes

Bryce

B ryce Hargraves walks along the street towards the Little Drop of Heaven café, eager to get that hot liquid coursing through his body.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he can’t deny the chill in the air this morning is doing a number on his arthritic knee.

But he refuses to give into it. Refuses to limp.

He’s a tough old bastard and he plans to keep it that way.

Squinting against the emerging sun, the wrinkles on his face from sixty-five years of work on his own cattle farm, deepen even further.

From the road, a car horn toots. Bryce glances up to see John Greentree, another born-and-bred local, wave from his beaten-up ute. Bryce raises his hand in return.

‘Hey, Bryce!’ Tom Packer calls from the other side of the street, then hurries across the road.

Bryce stops on the footpath and waits. Tom’s only been a Cascade resident for ten years, but he’d fit in almost immediately and had become a close friend.

‘Comin’ to the pub tonight?’ Tom asks, panting a little.

‘You betcha. My shout, right?’

‘Thought ya shouted last time?’

Bryce gives him a sociable pat on the shoulder. ‘What’s it matter? All works out in the end, right?’

‘Good man. I’ll see ya there.’

In an upbeat mood, Bryce watches Tom hurry off in the opposite direction. His good mood doesn’t last long. Guilt courses through him, putting an end to any thoughts of the carefree life he’d led until a few days ago. But he also knows he can return to that life again.

Just a matter of time. That’s all there is to it.

Until then, he knows what to do to prevent the spread of the highly contagious disease. A disease his cattle developed just a week after his daughter, Georgia, returned from a Year Twelve trip to Japan.

Once the symptoms began to take hold, he’d figured out what was wrong with his cattle.

Since then, his full-time job has consisted of hiding the disease from the rest of the community, and Georgia.

It’d been easy to begin with. Still recovering from jet lag and feeling homesick, she hadn’t wanted to go anywhere.

And even now, she hasn’t been too interested in the cattle since her return, so she hasn’t noticed the signs of the disease.

Not that she’d know what they were. But over the last couple of days, she’s started making noises about coming into town to visit her friends.

Bryce doesn’t like to lie to her, but if it means protecting her and the farm, he has no choice.

A week ago, he’d disabled her car. Pretending he had no idea what was wrong with it, he’d told her he’d get someone to look at it as soon as he could.

She’d been upset, but that was a far better alternative than having her know what she’d unintentionally done.

Every time he’s come into town, Bryce has left home before Georgia wakes. Not too difficult since she’s seventeen and prone to sleeping until midday.

Though the decontamination process is a pain in the goddamn arse, she would have been suspicious had he completely ceased coming into town.

So, when he does, he fills a couple of buckets with industrial-strength disinfectant and steaming hot water, places them in the ute’s tray with a hard, bristled scrubbing brush and drives to the end of the kilometre-long driveway.

Once there, he scrubs and rinses the ute’s tyres until every pebble and clump of dirt falls away, and does the same with his shoes.

Only then does he drive onto the public road.

With all the precautions he takes, there’s no chance the disease will spread.

And in another week or so, the symptoms will disappear, and the threat of an outbreak will be gone.

And no one, including Georgia, will be any wiser.

Stepping inside the warm café, Bryce freezes. There, sitting at a table in the corner, is his rotten neighbour, Dan Clark. The bastard who broke Georgia’s heart when he killed her prized bull.

‘Hi, Mr Hargraves,’ Jo sings out from behind the counter.

He glares at Clark, waiting for any sign of acknowledgement, but as always, the rude son of a bitch doesn’t even lift his head.

Plastering on a smile, her strides over to the counter. ‘Hiya, Jo. Whatcha got for me today?’

Jo gives him a wide grin. ‘Those cinnamon buns you love. You want me to warm up a couple?’

‘That’d be great.’

He watches her place them in the toaster oven, then busy herself with a couple of takeaway coffees. She fits the lids and pushes them across the counter, rolling her eyes at him as if they share a secret.

‘Ah, Dr Clark?’ she calls, clearly uncomfortable.

Bryce steps back as Clark approaches the counter and finally glances at him. For a split second. Long enough to acknowledge the animosity between them, before his eyes skitter away.

The freak slides a twenty-dollar note onto the counter with a gloved hand. Jo waits unit he releases it before she dare touch it. She places the change on the counter and slides it over to Clark. Smiling inwardly, Bryce knows she’ll do anything to avoid contact with the freak.

When the bell over the door sounds, Bryce turns to see eighteen-year-old Mike Turnbull enter. He briefly wonders why the twit hasn’t left town to pursue a career as a drug addict in the city. From the looks of his long, greasy hair and threadbare clothes, that’s all he seems qualified for.

They give each other a nod, and Bryce moves to allow Mike enough room to step up to the counter. As Clark clumsily tries to stuff his change in his pocket with his gloves on, a coin drops to the floor.

Mike bends, retrieves the coin and offers it to Clark. Without a word, Clark ignores him, grabs his coffees and leaves.

‘What a freak,’ Mike says as he leans on the counter and grins at Jo.

At least that’s one opinion Bryce has in common with the kid.

Jo checks on the cinnamon buns, returns to the counter and looks at Mike. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking. Maybe he’s not a germaphobe at all. Maybe he’s really a serial killer afraid of leaving fingerprints. Ever thought of that?’

Bryce likes the way the girl thinks.

‘Nah,’ Mike says. ‘I like your Freddy Krueger–hands theory better. Pus and sinew and burnt flesh—’ He suddenly grabs Jo’s shoulders. She squeals and pulls away in disgust.

‘Gross! You buying something?’

‘Nah. Just here to look at you.’

‘Then get outta here,’ she says.

Bryce watches with amusement as Mike gives her a small bow.

‘Your wish is my command,’ he says in a pathetic attempt at an English accent.

Bryce waits until Mike leaves before he says, ‘I see that boy hasn’t given up.’

Jo shrugs, removing the cinnamon buns from the toaster. When she returns to the counter, she takes his payment.

‘Guys are idiots. ’Cept for you, Mr Hargraves. I wish my dad’d let me go to Japan … or anywhere besides here. Georgia’s lucky to have an awesome dad like you.’

‘Well, that’s kinda you to say, Jo.’

When he leaves, he feels a slight spring in his step as he replays Jo’s words in his head.

Yep, Georgia is lucky to have him. If it wasn’t for his insatiable need to protect his only child and farm, if it wasn’t for the actions he’s taken to keep the outbreak on his property a secret, they’d both be thought of as traitors by the entire town.