"Wake up."
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Becky's eyes snapped open. The voice next to her was a low whisper.
By the light of the crescent moon, she could see the form of Elly silhouetted next to her, and she could hear the voices, getting louder.
Elly heard everything.
Elly saw everything.
Elly never slept.
"Becky. Wake up and get out the window. It's starting."
The rain was playing staccato rhythms on the tin roof, and the wind was gushing through the half-open window, but yet the voices got louder.
"Becky! Now! Go!"
Becky threw off the covers and pulled on her slippers. She grabbed Elly by the trunk and slid out the window as quietly as she could.
The voices had got louder, and she heard the sound of a glass breaking.
"The treehouse," said Elly.
"Get to the treehouse."
The rain was pelting now, and the wind whipped Becky's face. She had left her raincoat in her cupboard.
"There's no time for that," said Elly "We need to run."
Her parents were fighting again. They had been fighting a lot lately.
There would be yelling, and screaming, and the sound of broken dishes or busted gyprock. Sometimes her mother would be wearing more makeup the next day, or wearing a long sleeve shirt.
"He hits her," Elly told her. "But she doesn't want the ladies at church to know."
Old Mrs Campbell had looked at her mother awkwardly at church one morning and commented on her makeup and her "new eyeshadow", but then walked away as Becky's father approached.
The tree house, like Elly, had always been there. There were holes in the roof now; but luckily no holes in the floor. It had faded so that the wood was the same colour as the tree.
No-one even noticed it was there anymore, apart from Becky and Elly.
The rain was still coming down, and the wind was still rustling the trees, but they could still hear the yelling. Becky ran to the bottom of the garden, shoved Elly down the front of her pyjama top and hoisted herself up the ladder.
They reached the top and Becky hoisted herself in.
Elly wiggled free and sat in the corner.
"Stay quiet Becky," she said.
Becky had learned what happened when you were too loud. She absentmindedly rubbed the blotches on her wrists.
Becky's dad was handsome on the outside but ugly on the inside. Most people saw the outside and didn't look any further.
He owned and operated the town butcher shop. He was the friendly guy who would chat to old Mr Davies and take poor Mrs Smith's packages to the car for her.
He was the guy with the golden tan who could swing a bat and score a century for the local cricket team. He was quick with a joke and a laugh, so if he spent a bit too long in the pub, or protested a bit too loudly about an LBW decision, no-one thought anything of it.
She could hear the sound of Mrs Campbell's dog Cujo barking. Cujo was a border collie and had bitten Becky's buttock a year ago when the dog was little more than a puppy, and Becky was young and clueless about dogs. She was now older and wiser, and there were no hard feelings. Becky's dad had threatened to call the council and have the dog "dealt with". He didn't of course, but Cujo had hated him from the time he saw the man.
"Dogs are smarter than people," said Elly.
There was more yelling and screaming, then the sound of a loud thump, and silence. Becky was glad that it was over. She looked over at Elly in the corner. Her enormous ears were slowly flapping back and forward, and her trunk was sniffing the air. Cujo howled.
"This is not good," said Elly. "This is not good at all." Her trunk trembled. "We need to get to Mrs Campbell's. Don't worry about Cujo. Go through the fence, get across the cow paddock, and bash on the back door as hard as you can so old Mrs Campbell will hear you. Tell her your mum is in trouble and to call triple zero."
Becky tucked Elly in her top and climbed down the ladder.
As luck would have it, old Mrs Campbell was still awake. She was up watching her favourite western. That Clint Eastwood was a good-looking sort. At first, she thought the noise was gunfire from the TV, then thought it was hail on the roof, before she realised it was the back door.
Nobody came to the back door.
Mrs Campbell opened her back door to the sight of her howling dog, and the small girl soaked from head to toe; her hands scratched from barbed wire, and her legs splattered with mud and cow dung.
She uttered only three words: "Mum. Triple zero".
Later that night Becky lay tucked up in Mrs Campbell's spare bed; dry, dressed in Mrs Campbell's old T-shirt and smelling of Mrs Campbell's talcum powder. There had been the sound of different sirens from opposing directions, red, white and blue lights through the windows, and the sounds of gunfire from the TV in the back room.
Now it was relatively dark and quiet, with the sound of urgent whispers.
"That poor child. Did you see her wrists?"
". . . soaked to the skin"
". . .Head trauma. Poor woman. Serious but stable. Forensics are going over the house so we can't release his body."
"See if there are any relatives"
"Should we wake her?"
"No. Let the poor child sleep after all she's been through. She knows you."
Becky turned to the silhouette on the pillow. "Thank you, Elly'."
Elly didn't respond.
For the first time in her short, grey, furry existence, Elly could sleep.
***
Stephanie Ayers, the author of this piece, is a finalist in the 2022 Newcastle Herald Short Story Competition. Read the full list of finalists in this year's Herald Short Story Competition by visiting the Newcastle Herald website.
