"Shit!" I hissed under my breath, my unsteady feet betraying me as they slipped through the slick, muddy terrain. In an instant, I found myself toppling to the sodden ground right in front of the wooden sign that marked the start of the Myrtle Forest trail. The fall jolted me, a harsh reminder of the unforgiving elements I was up against.
"You're still safe," I whispered reassuringly to the bottle of shiraz, which had miraculously escaped my fall unscathed. In my tumble, I had instinctively released the bottle, and it had landed safely in a pile of wet leaves. Relief washed over me for a moment as I grabbed the bottle, but it was quickly replaced by a sharp pain shooting through my left wrist. Touching it tenderly, I winced. Feels like a sprain, I silently diagnosed, a new wave of discomfort adding to my already dire situation.
From the other side of the toilet block, a car door slammed shut. My head shot up, and through the dripping foliage, red and blue flashes danced ominously. They're here! The realisation sent a surge of panic through me. My heart pounded in my chest as the gravity of my predicament sank in.
"Karl check this out!" I heard Detective Lahey's familiar voice call out loudly, her tone carrying a mix of authority and curiosity. Her voice was unmistakable, and it only added to my growing sense of urgency.
Clutching the wine bottle with my preferred hand, I managed to pull myself back to my feet, the rain pouring down harder now, driven by a loud clap of thunder that rumbled ominously overhead. The intensifying storm felt like a signal, a cue for me to get moving.
"It's here!" Sarah's enthusiastic voice yelled from somewhere behind me, her excitement palpable even through the chaos of the storm.
Daring to look back, just for a fleeting second, I caught a glimpse of the two detectives stalking around my abandoned car. There's nothing you can do about it now, I mentally braced myself, pushing aside any lingering hesitation. Encouraging my legs into a steady jog, I plunged deeper into the forest.
Having grown up in the area, the familiarity of Myrtle Forest provided a small comfort. The forest, a constant presence throughout my life, hadn’t changed much since my younger years, when I used to visit more frequently. The towering trees, the dense underbrush, the familiar scents and sounds – they all felt like old friends, albeit in a situation far from friendly.
Given the harsh weather, I was uncertain whether the detectives would be daring enough to follow me deep into the forest. Wondering whether sticking to the trail was too risky, I followed Myrtle Forest Trail east, covering a little over five hundred meters. At the first major bend, I paused, casting a glance back down the trail I had just travelled. My eyes scanned the path for any sign of the detectives, while my ears strained to pick up any sound over the relentless downpour.
Another deep rumble of thunder echoed through the forest, breaking my moment of hesitation. Just do it, Gladys! The bottle of shiraz in my hand seemed to demand action, as if it were a companion urging me on. Obeying the silent counsel of the one who always knew better, I stepped off the beaten path and headed north, away from the trail.
Navigating through the dense foliage was challenging, but my determination drove me forward. I knew that if I continued in this direction, I would eventually reach Myrtle Forest Creek. The plan formed in my mind: all I had to do was follow the creek until it crossed Fairy Glen Road. The simplicity of the idea gave me a sense of purpose, a clear objective amidst the uncertainty.
The rain soaked through my clothes, chilling me to the bone, but I kept moving, driven by a desperate need to escape. The forest around me was a blur of dark shapes and shadows, the way ahead of me barely visible in the low light. Every sound seemed amplified – the rain hitting the leaves, my laboured breaths, the faded voices of the detectives. I was alone, save for the bottle of shiraz clutched in my hand, a bizarre companion in my flight. As I jogged through the dense foliage, my mind raced with thoughts of what lay ahead. The unknown depths of the forest loomed before me, a sanctuary and a labyrinth all at once, and I pushed onward, the relentless pursuit of survival driving me deeper.
By the time I reached the road that symbolised a return to civilisation, the relentless rain had finally eased, giving way to a foggy drizzle that hung in the air like a ghostly veil. Strands of my hair, soaked and matted, clung to my water-slicked face, a testament to the treacherous journey I had just endured. I could feel the miscellaneous debris – leaves, twigs, remnants of the dense Tasmanian forest – that had entangled themselves in my clothing as I had forged my own path through the undergrowth. "I must look like a bloody drowned rat," I mumbled to myself, a half-hearted attempt at humour in the midst of my exhaustion.
Carefully, I used my sore hand to wring out the excess water from my hair. The movement was ginger and deliberate, as even this simple act caused discomfort. "And the bloody part probably isn't too far from the truth either," I sighed, my voice a mix of weariness and resolve. The realisation hit me as my fingertips brushed across several scratches that ran down my neck, each one stinging with a sharp reminder of the physical toll of my escape.
Slowing my pace to a gentle walk, I watched my breath form clouds in the cold air. The chill was seeping into my bones, but it felt almost refreshing after the adrenaline-fuelled flight through the forest. With a sense of ceremonial importance, I unscrewed the lid of the shiraz and brought the bottle to my parched lips. The first sip of the wine was deliciously satisfying, a small but significant reward for my trials.
I took several deep, calming breaths, each one helping to steady my pounding heart. The tranquil moment felt like a temporary reprieve, a brief pocket of peace. I allowed myself another sip of the shiraz, savouring the taste and the moment of respite it provided.
The sudden jingle of my phone in my pocket shattered the fleeting tranquility, causing me to splutter on the wine. I hurriedly wiped away a small dribble that escaped down my chin, a mix of annoyance and urgency surging through me.
"Where the hell are you, Gladys?!" Beatrix's voice screeched through the phone the moment I answered. "Are you safe? Did they catch you?"
"I'm fine, Beatrix," I reassured her, trying to inject a calmness into my voice that I didn't quite feel. "Please can you come and get me?" The request was a plea, a lifeline thrown out in a sea of uncertainty.
There was a brief, tense pause on the other end of the line.
"Of course," Beatrix finally replied, her voice now a blend of relief and determination. "Where are you?"
"I'll send you my location," I said, preparing to share my coordinates with her.
"Great!"
"And Beatrix..." I began, but my words were cut short by the roar of a V8 engine and the sound of tyres gripping the wet bitumen. I turned just in time to see an oncoming ute speeding dangerously close. The vehicle sent an enormous splash of dirty water over me, smothering me in a grimy mixture of dirt and leaf litter from head to toe.
"Dick head!" I yelled after the inconsiderate driver as the ute sped away, leaving me even more dishevelled than before.
"Gladys?" Beatrix's voice came through the phone again, filled with concern.
Closing my eyes, I let out a heavy sigh. "Beatrix, please hurry," I implored, feeling a mix of desperation and exhaustion.
"I'll find you as fast as I can. I promise," she assured me.
The moment the call ended, I didn't hesitate to take several more gulps of the shiraz. The wine had become my medicine, a temporary antidote to the overwhelming stress and crisis of the situation. "What a mess," I grumbled to the bottle, the words a commentary on both my bedraggled physical appearance and the dire situation Luke had plunged me into. As I stood there, soaked and muddy, I couldn't help but muse, I guess I'm now officially a wanted criminal. The thought was grim, yet there was a certain dark humour to it. In my mind, it seemed that nothing short of an arrest could make the day’s events any worse.
