some pituri,’ the old man said, pressing a twist of newspaper into his hand. ‘Now go and help them.’ He nodded towards the back of the house. ‘Quick!’
After a second’s hesitation, Chaseling pocketed the pituri and ran to the edge of the house, where he paused and looked over his shoulder. The old man wasn’t there anymore. The bloody-faced women, led by Cookie, were filing up the front steps, their wailing growing in pitch and tempo. One of them bashed her head against the door frame as she went inside. Chaseling tore his eyes away and ran around down the side of the house. He saw the flickering of a torch a short distance away out in the scrub and ran towards it.
‘What kept you, Kumina?’ Clarrie was following his father, who was walking ahead with the torch, following the killer’s foot prints.
‘Just a bit of good, old-fashioned cowardice,’ Chaseling muttered under his breath.
‘Speak up Kumina, I can’t hear you.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
Moving in single file, the three pressed deeper and deeper into the sparse scrub. Off to the east, the rumble of thunder was getting louder, the lightning flashes brighter.
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