Chapter Forty Seven

The Shoebox

Links to previous chapters: Ch1 Ch2 Ch3 Ch4 Ch5 Ch6 Ch7 Ch8 Ch9 Ch10 Ch11 Ch12 Ch13 Ch14 Ch15 Ch16 Ch17 Ch18 Ch19 Ch20 Ch21 Ch22 Ch23 Ch24 Ch25 Ch26 Ch27Ch28 Ch29 Ch30 Ch31 Ch32 Ch33 Ch34 Ch35 Ch36 Ch37 Ch38 Ch39 Ch40 Ch41 Ch42 Ch43 Ch44 Ch45 Ch46

Lizzy’s coarse bottle-blonde hair fell across her face as she ratted through the battered shoebox she had removed from the back of the wardrobe she shared with Zac. It had been hidden, well covered with shoes and other paraphernalia that always reside in the bottom of cupboards. She knew that she hadn’t put it there and that its contents may be the answer to the pertinent questions that had recently and shockingly arisen in her addled brain.

Zac had come home a couple of nights ago with a pretty severe injury to his leg. He had tried to make light of it, but even in her inebriated state she had known that it needed medical attention. Those were definite teeth marks deeply punctured around the ripped skin. He had obviously been savaged by a dog. He was in a lot of pain and could hardly walk. How he managed to get home from the station she couldn’t imagine. There was a lot of blood. His Adidas track pants were completely ruined, shredded even.

Questioning him had been a waste of time. He mumbled that he had changed his mind about staying at his mate’s place because his “bloody dog was a menace and should be shot!” He had needed stitches in her opinion and a damned good tetanus shot. “Do you know how many germs are in a dog’s mouth? They eat shit for god’s sake!” She had already imbibed the best part of two bottles of wine while he’d been out. The room swam pleasantly, so she had found him some Panadol, left him to his injuries and gone to bed.

The following morning, he was gone, so was her car. She hoped, dully, through a foggy headache, that he had gone to the medical centre for some help. The bathroom was a mess, drops and spots of blood, sodden, bloodied towels, dirty ripped track pants on the floor, medicine cabinet wide open, contents strewn about. He had taken his backpack and some of his clothes. No text messages, no missed calls, no car.

Her confidence fell to the floor. Yesterday she had congratulated herself on finally snaring a good-looking stable man. They had had so much fun together. He was great in bed and was a perfect drinking companion. He bought food when the fridge was empty, which was often. He usually calmed her down instead of arguing with her and had only hit her once. A gem.

The crunch had come a few days later when he still hadn’t returned. She had texted and called to no avail. She had no car and no more wine. It had been a bloody nightmare catching the bus to the bottle shop in Blackheath. Mount Vic was a ghost town these days, both its pubs had closed down in recent years. Only a couple of cafes left. What good is a cup of coffee when you need a decent drink?! On her way back, laden with liquid supplies, she picked up the local gazette from the overgrown front lawn. She poured herself a ‘hair of the dog’ opened up the paper and flicked listlessly through it at the cluttered kitchen table. She wondered where he’d gone and why. Maybe he was dead or in hospital from dog bite infection. She drained the glass.

The police news page, always a good column to learn about old friends, was an interesting read. There had been a few crimes around the area. Speeding arrest (0.25 on the breathalyser – hah that’s nothing – she had scored 0.30 at her last arrest), some burglaries had occurred, and the stupid perpetrators had been found and arrested. The road to the Megalong Valley had collapsed again and wedding guests had been trapped down in the valley. Not a problem – there are wineries down there.

Then she saw it: “A local man, Wayne Ronald Turner aged 28, wanted by the police for several serious offences, was sighted at a Blackheath property and is presently at large. He was allegedly attacked by a dog while illegally entering said property and causing damage to a vehicle. He has injuries which may force him to seek medical attention. Police have advised medical facilities to be on the lookout for anyone with unexplained dog bite injuries. Do not engage with this man, call triple zero if you encounter him. Call crime stoppers on 1800 333 000 if you have any other information.”

Lizzy’s face, at first just ghostly, turned a whiter shade of pale.^* “Zac…”, she whispered. “Zac!”, she cried.

Opening the half jammed sliding doors of the ancient built-in wardrobe, Liz searched the pockets of Zac’s clothes. Pulling frantically through the few possessions Zac had stored in there, she wailed, “Who are you?”. The shoebox, lid taped down, yielded folded papers, an old biro, and underneath, a green medicare card, a driver’s licence and a bank debit card. All bore the name ‘Wayne Ronald Turner’.

Breathing hard, she reached into the pocket of her grubby dressing gown for her phone.

* A Whiter Shade of Pale – Procul Harum (1967)