Run Rabbit, Run
Prologue
‘Shoulda dealt with that bitch a long time ago.’
Vic rolls the steaming, rotting terrier on her side with his toe. A blowfly whines around the bloated tongue, glistening with frothy blood and spit. The corpse is still chained to the post in Vic’s backyard, bloated and lying in its own shit and blood. Her rubbery black gums shrink back against razor teeth. Rabbit draws swirls in the dust with a thick stick, trying real hard to ignore the rancid stench.
‘Jesus, Vic. There’s a bloody kid here,’ Rabbit’s dad hisses. His tall, cool shadow falls over Rabbit’s dusty lines. Vic watches Rabbit with still, dark eyes. Rabbit watches the little dot of white spit on Vic’s cracked lower lip.
‘Chuck us that stick, Rabbit,’ Vic says finally, holding his hand out expectantly. Vic’s eyes are empty, he realises and spins wildly, expectantly, towards his father’s own warm, honey gaze – but the sun is high and his father is a black shape against a blinding glare.
He drops the stick.
*
‘Rabbit?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Was it really oozing?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did it really shit itself?’
‘Yeah.’
Gem’s nose twitches in thought, her eyes scrunched tight against the late afternoon sun. A little bell jingles in the doorway of the milk-bar. Sitting on the curb, Rabbit unwraps his Paddlepop. Gem’s ice-cream is already a sticky banana mess.
‘Dad says you could see the maggots eating its tongue. Could you really?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Really?’
‘Piss off, Gem.’
Streaks of rainbow ice-cream trickles like tar down Rabbit’s hand. All he can see is that blowfly swimming in spit and blood.
Rabbit hears the heavy thud of his father’s Blundstones before he sees him. He’s changed into a clean pair of jeans — still dusty and sun-bleached, but Rabbit can’t see any blood. Gem runs to her uncle’s side. Her freckled arms, pale from living a city life, barely reach around his beer gut. He ruffles her plaited hair and plants a bearded kiss on her forehead.
The ute is parked beneath the shade of a silver wattle. A golden fuzz settles over the roof and tray. Gem calls shotgun, sprinting for the single passenger seat. Rabbit climbs into the tray, squinting against the sun and shower of pollen.
The road is rough, scarred with potholes and loose asphalt but Rabbit surfs the jolts, clinging to the side of the ute. Inside the cabin his father switches on the radio.
‘Can you hear, Rabbit?’ he yells out the window, turning up the volume until Rabbit could hear the words of I’m on Fire over the rushing wind. As they turn off the paved road, he breathes the smoky red dust that clouds behind them, until it tickles his lungs, and tries to put the dead dog out of his mind.
Vic rolls the steaming, rotting terrier on her side with his toe. A blowfly whines around the bloated tongue, glistening with frothy blood and spit. The corpse is still chained to the post in Vic’s backyard, bloated and lying in its own shit and blood. Her rubbery black gums shrink back against razor teeth. Rabbit draws swirls in the dust with a thick stick, trying real hard to ignore the rancid stench.
‘Jesus, Vic. There’s a bloody kid here,’ Rabbit’s dad hisses. His tall, cool shadow falls over Rabbit’s dusty lines. Vic watches Rabbit with still, dark eyes. Rabbit watches the little dot of white spit on Vic’s cracked lower lip.
‘Chuck us that stick, Rabbit,’ Vic says finally, holding his hand out expectantly. Vic’s eyes are empty, he realises and spins wildly, expectantly, towards his father’s own warm, honey gaze – but the sun is high and his father is a black shape against a blinding glare.
He drops the stick.
*
‘Rabbit?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Was it really oozing?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did it really shit itself?’
‘Yeah.’
Gem’s nose twitches in thought, her eyes scrunched tight against the late afternoon sun. A little bell jingles in the doorway of the milk-bar. Sitting on the curb, Rabbit unwraps his Paddlepop. Gem’s ice-cream is already a sticky banana mess.
‘Dad says you could see the maggots eating its tongue. Could you really?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Really?’
‘Piss off, Gem.’
Streaks of rainbow ice-cream trickles like tar down Rabbit’s hand. All he can see is that blowfly swimming in spit and blood.
Rabbit hears the heavy thud of his father’s Blundstones before he sees him. He’s changed into a clean pair of jeans — still dusty and sun-bleached, but Rabbit can’t see any blood. Gem runs to her uncle’s side. Her freckled arms, pale from living a city life, barely reach around his beer gut. He ruffles her plaited hair and plants a bearded kiss on her forehead.
The ute is parked beneath the shade of a silver wattle. A golden fuzz settles over the roof and tray. Gem calls shotgun, sprinting for the single passenger seat. Rabbit climbs into the tray, squinting against the sun and shower of pollen.
The road is rough, scarred with potholes and loose asphalt but Rabbit surfs the jolts, clinging to the side of the ute. Inside the cabin his father switches on the radio.
‘Can you hear, Rabbit?’ he yells out the window, turning up the volume until Rabbit could hear the words of I’m on Fire over the rushing wind. As they turn off the paved road, he breathes the smoky red dust that clouds behind them, until it tickles his lungs, and tries to put the dead dog out of his mind.