1
COLD
Kate Delayne’s eyes snap open and the first thing she notices is the cold. It’s a familiar cold: the sharp sting of a thousand acupuncture needles plunging into her skin at once. She knows that cold. Southern Highlands cold. She’s approaching the Southern Highlands.
She’s lying on the back seat of a car. His car. Shudder. The Guy. The Guy doesn’t get to have a name.
She looks ahead and sees his frosted blond hair glinting, his arms at the steering wheel, snaked with veins, buffed at the gym. His wrists and fingers tap-tap the wheel in time to the music in manic delight. Pearl Jam.
It would be kind of funny if it wasn’t so grim. Kate loathes Pearl Jam—nineties commercial grunge. On the car CD player, the nasal whine of Eddie Vedder’s voice, warbling that he’s still alive.
Kate Delaney is still alive but her stomach churns with the understanding that she mightn’t be for long. She’s hundreds of kilometers from where she started from in Melbourne that night. If Pearl Jam is to be one of the last sounds of her thirty-something years . . . it feels like one of those postmodern jokes she once scoffed at over cheap shiraz.
She glances down at her stockings: black opaques, torn at the knee, her blood like treacle in the moonlight. It hurts to move and she’s afraid to move in case he realises she’s awake and does something . . . else.











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