Cover Page

THE STONING

Title Page

Dedication

For my children, with love and gratitude

SHE WAS BEING pushed now, her body folded in on itself, crammed into a shopping trolley with a wonky wheel, her face crosshatched by the hard wire frame. Shreds of her skirt hung beneath the trolley, together with hanks of her sandy blonde hair. Wet and sweaty and matted, they left a light trail of droplets that quickly evaporated on the warm bitumen.

With each passing metre, her body sank lower into the trolley, limp, taking the shape of the metal frame. A pair of white headlights appeared at the end of the next street. In response, the trolley was stopped in the middle of the road. Then it sped up, going twice as fast, until it reached the gutter, its wheels sticking, unable to climb the high concrete. The ute revved its eight cylinders, a deep mechanical growl echoing across the night. It closed in, only swerving at the last minute before thundering away.

Finding the nearest footpath ramp, the trolley was returned to normal speed, passing Saint Matthew’s and the adjoining cemetery with its faded headstones and waist-high grass. The tinderbox trees drooped along Glenmore Road, heavy with excess oil. Their glassy green leaves hung like safety matches in the hot night air, scratching precariously against each other. A pale blue mist of eucalyptus obscured the stars above, a new moon cloaking the land in darkness.

The trolley was pushed further. Its home was normally at the northern end of town, at the Cobb Friendly Grocer. Not that it had been there in months; these were free-range trolleys, available to transport beer or trash or people. Its hard plastic wheels clunked along each corrugated square in the footpath, jolting and sending a light shockwave through her body at regular intervals.

The trolley was paused again before accelerating, rattling, shaking, picking up even more speed as its swivel wheels flicked erratically, left and right, left and right. They were soon passing the ex-services club, the cenotaph and the war memorial, inscribed with the names of those who fought and died, the unassuming digger with his slouch hat and gun.

The final destination was downhill, a gentle roll to the eastern end of King Street. The oval was there, peaceful and quiet. Footy in the winter, cricket in summer. The dilapidated wooden grandstand was where teenagers conceived children and spread diseases.

The trolley was eased up on final approach before suddenly being released, left to its own momentum as the earth fell away. It floated forwards and rotated sideways before it ran aground and tipped over at the end of the concrete footpath leading up to the oval. She fell hard, landing on her face, twisting her neck, a mess of arms and legs and yellow hair. Her thin cotton skirt lifted around her waist, exposing her pale thighs.