Ringer Read Online Free PDF Page B

life?
    The sleeping quarters were pretty good,
actually: a long line of individual rooms that led onto their individual decked
verandah. It wasn’t far from the main house, the view offering the comings and
goings of the Henry household. Including what I assumed was the mother and
youngest daughter. Moira, was it? Returning home in their flash Land Cruiser
after a day in the big smoke. I had hoped that the shadows might have concealed
me, but Moira leapt from the passenger seat, fixing her eyes straight on me. I
offered a casual wave that caused her to smile as she turned and skipped into
the house with a heap of bags swinging from her arms.
    “Miranda’s home! Miranda’s home,” she
sing-songed up the steps joyously as she struggled to open the door with her
cargo and raced inside.
    Pfft, at least someone was happy about
it.
    I slurped on my tepid cup of tea as I
watched Mrs Henry shut the passenger door. As predicted, she wore
cream-coloured capri pants with a navy linen shirt pressed to perfection. Her
sunglasses propped on her immaculate jet-black bob, as she gathered some
shopping and some wrapped flowers before locking the car and moving towards the
house without a backwards glance.
    Ha! Don’t worry, luv, I won’t steal
anything.
    It had made my stance to not stay in the
house a good one. Steve had said to come and grab whatever I needed from the
kitchen, but I didn’t wholly feel comfortable with that arrangement. The house
was spacious, grand, but I never felt anything more than claustrophobic in it,
now more so that the older devil child had returned. I was out of there, I
couldn’t have cared less about her eyes, they no doubt shot laser beams from
them anyway. No, I was best here in my simple room, with my single cot bed:
clean, comfortable, no TV, a rickety ceiling. That was all that mattered. I
knew I wouldn’t exactly find a mini fridge and a mint on my pillow but that was
okay. It was the change of scenery I had wanted. This was now my man cave.
    Orientation would begin early on Monday,
which gave me the weekend to settle in, of sorts, get my bearings, become
accustomed to the lay of the land, all the while avoiding Miranda Henry. Should
be easy enough; she didn’t much strike me as the outdoorsy type.
    Cuppa tea downed and now butting out my
last cigarette, I let the two front legs of the chair fall to the deck as I
stretched and groaned, ready to turn in for the night. It was only eight
o’clock, but with little else to do, I stood to make my way inside, pausing at
the sound of clinking cutlery and footsteps crunching into the dirt. I squinted
into the darkness, seeing the silhouette closing in from the house.
    “Hello,” chirped a friendly voice.
    “Hi,” I said, guarded until the form was
visible. The glinting metal smile of Moira, carrying a chinking tray of food.
    “Mum thought you might be hungry.” She
grinned, stepping up to the verandah and setting the tray on the rickety side
table next to the chair.
    “You bloody ripper,” I said. Sitting back
down on the chair, feasting into a tray of biscuits, cheese and fruit. It
wasn’t exactly two meat and veg. Still, I was grateful nevertheless, not
realising how hungry I actually was until I saw the tray of food.
    “Thurnks,” I managed through a mouthful of
food, as Moira poured me a drink from a clinking ice-cubed jug.
    “You’re very welcome,” she said, her
beaming eyes staring at me.
    Oh-O . I
swallowed my food roughly. “Well … um … tell your mum thanks for me.”
    “There’s cake under here.” Moira lifted a
lid off a small plate like she was a magician. “I made it myself,” she said
with pride.
    “Wow, thanks.” I nodded in good humour; I’m
not sure how much more I could say. Guessing that would be it, I thought she
would simply skip back to the house. Instead, Moira propped herself up on the
beam of the verandah and wrapped her arm around the post, making herself quite
at home.
    “Is your name really