I let out a heavy, impatient sigh, the warmth of my breath fogging the car windows slightly in the chill of the morning. The interior of the car felt close, almost claustrophobic, as I addressed the single bottle of shiraz sitting on the passenger seat, a silent companion in my mounting frustration. "I'm going to have to leave you soon," I said, half-jokingly, half-resigned. With the police now clearly snooping around Luke's house, a change in our routine had become necessary. I paused, my thoughts circling. Snooping? I questioned the word choice in my mind. "Stalking more like it," I mumbled under my breath, a bitterness edging into my tone.
The silent thought resumed its course. Luke had decided late yesterday afternoon that we should avoid his house as much as possible, a decision that seemed both prudent and frustrating. "All major deliveries should be sent to the Owens' property," he had instructed me, his words heavy with implication.
"Owens?" I had asked, a note of confusion in my voice.
"They have a sheltered property in Collinsvale. They're both in Clivilius now," he had said with the cheekiest grin I had ever seen on his face. It was a grin that belied the seriousness of the situation, a moment of levity in a reality that seemed to be growing increasingly grim.
Holding the wine bottle in my hand, I had felt a surge of frustration so intense it bordered on anger. Did Luke not realise that with more missing people, it was only a matter of time before the police would be stalking the Owens' property too? His departure had been swift, leaving me with my unspoken concerns and growing apprehension.
And now, in line with Luke's plans for 'big deliveries,' I found myself parked at the Owens' property in Collinsvale, waiting for a very large delivery of chopped firewood. The irony of the situation was not lost on me – here I was, a part of clandestine operations, waiting for something as mundane as firewood. The solitude of the wait, the quiet of the surrounding property, felt surreal, a stark contrast to the chaos of recent events.
Sitting in the car, the bottle of shiraz my only company, I couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom. Each passing minute seemed to stretch, filled with the weight of unspoken fears and unanswered questions. The Owens' property, with its promise of shelter and secrecy, was now a new stage for our unfolding drama, a temporary haven that I feared would soon be compromised.
The loud churning of the small truck's engine tore through the morning stillness, instantly drawing my attention. The sound of heavy chunks of wood rattling in the back as the truck navigated the pothole-riddled driveway was a stark reminder of why I was here. Relieved that the delivery of wood had finally arrived, I leaned over to unclip the glove compartment, ready to complete this transaction and get out of here.
As I gripped the envelope of cash, a peculiar, unsettling sensation crawled across the skin of my palm. Caught off guard, my hand jerked backward reflexively, a swift movement that sent several notes fluttering out of the envelope towards me. Accompanying the fluttering notes was a dark grey object that landed with an ominous thud on the label of the wine bottle beside me.
My eyes widened in horror as I realised what had accompanied the money. Eight beady, unblinking eyes stared back at me from the grotesque head of a large, furry, plump huntsman spider. My back slammed against my seat as I recoiled, instinctively pushing myself as far away as possible against the car door. My breath hitched in my throat, my heart pounding wildly as I fixed an unyielding glare on the monstrous arachnid.
"Fuck off!" I yelled, my voice a mix of fear and disgust. The spider, a hideous intruder in my already strained morning, remained unmoving, its presence a horrifying violation of my personal space.
The spider’s two long, hairy front legs twitched slightly, a movement so subtle yet so spine-tingling that it sent shivers down my spine. I was frozen in place, trapped in a standoff with this eight-legged terror.
My mind raced with panic, the morning’s tension now escalated to new heights by this unexpected and unwelcome visitor. The truck outside, the wood delivery, Luke's plans – all of it faded into the background as I faced the immediate threat before me. In this moment, the spider was the embodiment of all the chaos and uncertainty that had infiltrated my life, a tangible representation of the creeping fear and anxiety that had been building up within me.
"No, wait," I found myself absurdly calling out to the spider, as if it could understand my desperate plea. My rational mind knew it was ridiculous, but the thought of it scurrying away in some unseen direction was unbearable. Another shiver cascaded down my shoulders as I stifled the thought of it disappearing into the car, lurking in some hidden crevice.
Carefully, I slid my hand behind my back, inching towards the car door handle. My fingers were slick with sweat, betraying my anxiety as they fumbled for the familiar shape of the handle. For a moment, I hesitated, second-guessing my plan. "Yes," I mumbled under my breath, finalising my strategy silently. I didn’t want to betray my intentions to the spider, irrational as that seemed. The plan was simple yet daunting: open the passenger door, circle around, and then, with a swift motion, fling the spider outside, rescuing my bottle of wine in the process. It was the perfect plan, or so I hoped.
With a breath that I didn’t realise I had been holding, I gently opened the driver's side door. The sound of the door creaking open seemed deafeningly loud in the quiet morning air. I carefully stepped out of the car, the leaf litter beneath my feet crackling softly, a stark contrast to the tense silence inside the vehicle.
To my immense relief, the spider hadn’t moved. It remained perched on the wine bottle, its eight eyes seemingly fixed on me.
As I began my tiptoed manoeuvre around the bonnet of the car, every sense was heightened, my eyes steadfastly locked on the unmoving huntsman spider. My heart raced, a mixture of fear and determination pulsing through me. Just then, the sudden slamming of the truck's cab door violently jolted my attention away from the arachnid adversary.
I turned to see a slender man emerging from the truck, his heavy, black boots snapping twigs underfoot as he thumped his way towards me. His presence was a sharp intrusion into my focused state, breaking the tense standoff with the spider.
"You order the wood?" he asked, his voice cutting through the morning air, breaking the spell of my prior fixation.
"Yeah," I replied, my voice terse, the distraction unwelcome but necessary. I gestured vaguely toward the large, wooden garden shed situated to the left of the Owens' quaint cottage. "Just dump it over there, somewhere," I instructed, eager to have him complete his task and leave.
As the man's heavy footsteps receded into the distance, heading towards the designated spot for the firewood, my focus swiftly shifted back to the passenger side door where my eight-legged nemesis awaited. The temporary distraction had given me a moment to gather my nerves, and I felt a renewed sense of purpose as I approached the door.
My hand reached for the handle, the metal cool and firm under my fingers. This was it – the moment to reclaim my space from the unwelcome intruder. The intensity of the situation felt almost surreal, a bizarre and unexpected challenge in the midst of an already complex and fraught day.
"Shit. You bastard!" I snapped aloud, my voice sharp with frustration. My eyes were wide, bulging with disbelief as I stared through the window at the lonely wine bottle on the passenger seat. The spider, my uninvited and fearsome passenger, had vanished without a trace. My heart pounded, and I could feel my blood pressure rising in tandem with my growing agitation.
Pressing my face against the glass, I moved from one window to the next in a frantic search for the elusive creature. The thought of that huntsman spider loose in my car sent waves of anxiety coursing through me. Every shadow, every slight movement seemed like it could be the spider, ready to make its terrifying appearance once again.
My brow furrowed deeply in concentration and frustration. I longed for silence, for a moment of peace to collect my thoughts. The sound of large chunks of wood rolling against the truck's metal bed outside was like a blaring soundtrack to my internal turmoil. It reminded me of turning down the music in a car to better concentrate on finding a hard-to-spot address. I rubbed my aching temple, feeling a headache beginning to form.
I need a new strategy, I realised. My previous plan, once so clear and determined, now seemed foolish and naive. With a deep breath, I found the handle of the passenger door and slowly opened it, sticking to my original plan despite my mounting uncertainty.
As the door creaked open, I stared blankly at the bottle of shiraz, now sitting innocently on the seat. My brain felt enveloped in a fog of indecision and frustration. How long I stood there, immobile and lost in thought, I couldn't say. The simplicity of the wine bottle, an object of such normalcy, stood in stark contrast to the apprehension that had taken hold of me.
"Everything okay?" came the lumberjack's voice, booming and unexpected, right next to my ear. It thundered through the tense air, jolting me from my spider-centric trance.
"Shit," I exclaimed, my heart leaping into my throat. I spun around to face the man, the suddenness of his approach catching me completely off guard. "No," I responded bluntly, the stress of the situation evident in my terse reply.
The man's eyebrows arched upward in a mix of surprise and curiosity, but he chose to remain silent, waiting for me to elaborate.
Frowning deeply, my brows knitting together in frustration, I huffed out an explanation, "There's a bloody huntsman in my car."
A grin quickly spread across his heavily stubbled face, an amusement that seemed out of place given my current state of distress. "Well, you must have got him pretty good if he's all bloodied," he said, his chuckle deep and resonant.
His humour was the last thing I needed. "Oh, fuck off," I blurted out, my patience worn thin. My lips pursed into a tight pout, a physical manifestation of my growing irritation.
Despite my retort, the grin never left his face. He turned to leave but then pivoted back quickly, a reminder of unfinished business. "I need to get paid for the delivery first," he said, his tone more businesslike now.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I turned my attention back to the cash-filled envelope in the car. Trying desperately to push the recent, unnerving memory of the spider's fur brushing against my skin out of my mind, I felt my hand tremble as I reached for the envelope. I cautiously collected the scattered notes from the seat, my gaze darting around in high alert for any sign of the eight-legged intruder.
"How much was it again?" I asked, taking a step away from my car, which now felt violated by the presence of the huntsman spider. The distance provided a small sense of relief, even if it was purely psychological.
"Cash?" the lumberjack queried.
"Obviously," I replied, a hint of sarcasm in my voice. I rustled inside the envelope, feeling the crisp notes under my fingers.
"One-twenty will do," he said, his voice casual.
Concentrating, I began thumbing through the notes, counting them meticulously. I was eager to get this over with, to move past this unsettling interruption to my already tumultuous day. Extending my hand to deliver the cash, the lumberjack reached out to accept it. Our hands brushed against each other, and in a knee-jerk reaction fuelled by my heightened state of anxiety, my hand withdrew suddenly, sending the handful of notes fluttering into the air.
The lumberjack chuckled, a deep, hearty sound, as he bent down to retrieve the scattered notes. I watched him, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and frustration.
"Sorry," I mumbled, my voice barely above a whisper. The situation felt absurd, almost surreal, and I chastised myself internally for being so jumpy.
"It’s fine," he replied, his voice carrying a reassuring tone. He glanced up at me briefly, his eyes meeting mine as his hands made quick work of collecting the money.
Feeling my face flush with a hot wave of embarrassment, I looked away, unable to maintain eye contact while he gathered the notes. My mind was still partly on the spider in my car, the lurking fear adding to my discomfort.
Once he had collected all the notes and stood back up, he introduced himself. "I'm Jim, by the way," he announced, extending his hand that was now free of cash.
I hesitated for a brief moment, the recent touch still fresh in my mind. Then, gathering a semblance of composure, I returned the gesture and allowed his rough-skinned hand to grip mine firmly. The contact was brief, but his grip was strong and reassuring in its straightforwardness. My feet shifted weight nervously, and as soon as it was polite to do so, I withdrew my hand.
"Do you need a hand finding your spider?" Jim asked, a slight nod towards my car accompanying his offer. There was a hint of amusement in his voice, as if the idea of hunting down a spider was an amusing oddity in his day.
"It's fine," I replied, striving for a tone of casual indifference. I was determined not to come across as a damsel in distress over something as mundane as a spider, even if the reality of my fear was quite the opposite. "It's just a spider," I added, trying to convince both Jim and myself.
Jim shrugged.
"I'm sure if I leave the doors open for a while, it'll find its own way back out," I said, more to reassure myself than him. As I wiped my palms down my jeans, a nervous habit, I couldn't quite shake the doubt that lingered in my mind. Was it really that easy, or was I just hoping for a simple solution?
"Or just invite another one in," Jim quipped, his face taking on a reddish hue as he chuckled again. His humour was light-hearted, but it did little to ease the growing unease inside me.
Now that's more realistic, I thought grimly, the taste of unpleasant acid forming in my mouth at the thought of more spiders making themselves at home in my car.
Jim sucked in a deep breath, as if preparing to leave. "Well, I better get going then," he said, the air whooshing out as he spoke. His tone suggested a return to the day’s work, a departure from our brief, unexpected interaction.
I nodded in understanding, although a part of me was reluctant to see him go. His presence had been a distraction, a brief respite from my own turbulent thoughts and fears.
"It was nice meeting you..." Jim trailed off, seemingly searching for my name.
"Gladys," I finished for him, a small smile touching my lips despite the situation.
"Gladys," he repeated, his face deepening in colour, a combination of the physical laboiur and perhaps a touch of embarrassment showing through his dark stubble. He turned to leave.
"Hey, Jim," I called out, my voice slicing through the morning air, stopping him in his tracks. As he turned back around, an impulsive question tumbled out of my mouth. "Can I get a load of your wood?" The words escaped me before I could filter them, and a wave of instant regret washed over me, colouring my cheeks with a flush of red at my own clumsy phrasing.
Jim's expression shifted from casual to serious in an instant. His eyes, intense and focused, locked onto mine as he took several measured strides towards me, closing the distance until he stood barely a foot away. Towering several feet above me, his presence was imposing, almost overwhelming.
I silently begged my brain to divert my gaze from staring up at Jim's rugged and undeniably handsome face, but it was as if my neck had stiffened, refusing to obey. I was held captive by his gaze, a mix of intimidation and a strange, magnetic pull.
As Jim's chest rose and fell with deep, deliberate breaths, a hard-working, rough hand reached out and pressed gently against my cheek. "That all depends on what type of wood you're after," he said softly. His voice was low, almost a whisper, and I could see the corner of his mouth twitching, as if he was fighting to keep a grin at bay.
I felt a hard lump form in my throat, making it difficult to swallow. "The uh... you know...." I stammered, feeling foolish and flustered under his intense gaze.
"Yeah," Jim replied, his voice a husky murmur. He leaned in closer, his eyes closing as his lips approached mine.
"The uh... your firewood," I managed to continue, my voice barely above a whisper.
Pausing momentarily, Jim whispered, "Yeah, my wood's on fire." His proximity was intoxicating, yet a part of me felt a sudden jolt.
His lips, softer than expected given the roughness of his hand, pressed gently against mine. It was a moment that should have felt like an escape, but instead, thoughts of Cody floated into my mind, abruptly pulling me back to reality.
As I stepped back, breaking the moment, Jim cleared his throat, spitting a glob of phlegm off to the side. The sound and sight were jarring, instantly dispelling any remnants of the momentary spell.
"So, uh, how much do you want?" he asked, turning back to face me.
My face twisted in disgust at his action. "None, thanks," I replied, still reeling from the abrupt shift in the atmosphere.
"I meant firewood," said Jim, the playful grin once again lighting up his face, bringing back the easygoing lumberjack I had first encountered.
The exchange left me feeling a whirlwind of emotions - embarrassment, attraction, confusion, and then a sudden return to the stark reality of my situation.
The sound of wheels spinning down the dirt driveway suddenly captured our attention, breaking the lingering awkwardness between Jim and me. Squinting against the bright morning light, I tried to identify the ute and its driver, but neither was familiar to me. A sense of urgency washed over me as I quickly pulled out the remaining cash-filled envelope and pressed it into Jim's chest. "Just bring however much this will buy," I instructed him hastily. My mind was already racing, wondering about the new arrival and what it could mean.
I watched intently as the driver manoeuvred the ute around the yard, eventually coming to a stop alongside Jim’s empty truck. The arrival of someone unknown at this secluded location put me on edge, my senses heightened and alert.
Jim, seemingly unfazed by the interruption, began counting the cash. "Might take a few days to deliver this much. You okay with that?" he asked, his voice pulling me back to the immediate conversation.
"Sure," I said, my gaze still fixed on the man in the ute. "If I'm not here you can just dump it wherever it fits." My words were distracted, an automatic response as I tried to piece together who this new person could be.
A fleeting expression of disappointment crossed Jim’s tanned face, perhaps sensing my divided attention. "Not a problem," he replied, his tone understanding but tinged with a hint of regret. With a quick nod, he began to walk towards his truck.
As Jim approached his truck, the driver of the ute called out in a friendly manner, "Morning Jim."
"Hey, Adrian," Jim responded, a note of recognition in his voice. "You doing some work out here?"
Jim's reply to Adrian was muffled, his voice blending into the ambient sounds of the morning as he stepped up to Adrian's window. Desperate for clues, I tried to move closer to the two men, attempting to appear inconspicuous, but every step felt awkward and overly deliberate. Their voices seemed to soften just as my curiosity peaked, creating a frustrating barrier to my eavesdropping. My mind buzzed loudly with a torrent of questions. Who the hell is Adrian and what is he doing here? I was certain Luke hadn't mentioned him. Is this a Luke thing? Or is he here to meet with the Owens? A tight knot of anxiety formed in my stomach. If Luke isn't involved, how the hell am I going to explain to Adrian why I am on the Owens' property, alone?
Lost in my spiralling thoughts, I barely registered the end of Jim and Adrian's conversation. By the time I snapped back to the present, Jim had already left the property. I hadn't caught a single word of their exchange, leaving me with more questions than answers. Annoyance and apprehension mingled within me as I turned back to face my car.
A large stick caught my eye, lying nearby on the ground. Determined to rid my car of the unwanted spider that had returned to my precious wine bottle, I picked the stick up and leaned into the passenger side. With a swift, forceful flick, I sent the ugly huntsman spider hurtling across the car's interior and out the open driver's side door. "Bloody bastard," I hissed under my breath, the action providing a momentary release for my pent-up frustration.
With a sense of finality, I slammed the car door shut, sealing off the scene of my small victory. The adrenaline from the encounter with the spider left me with a lingering sense of unease, but also a strange feeling of empowerment. The spider was gone, but the mysteries of the morning remained unsolved. As I stood there, the stick still in my hand, I realised that the day was far from over. Whatever the reason for Adrian's visit, it was yet another complication in an already complex situation. I felt a growing sense of isolation, a realisation that in this tangled web of events, I was very much on my own.
