The Man by the Cabins

“Some places feel safe until you notice who’s watching from the edges.” — Rebecca Monk

The bus jolted to a halt in a cloud of ochre dust, the smell of hot metal and exhaust mingling with the dry tang of the Outback. A chorus of voices rose instantly—exclamations, squeals, the hurried rustle of bags being pulled from overhead racks. Windows slid open with a screech as girls craned their necks for a better look, eager to be the first to drink in the sight of their new world for the week.

Michelle pressed her face close to the glass, her breath fogging a patch of window. “Would you look at it!” she gasped. “This is proper camping. None of those backyard set-ups Mum calls a holiday.”

Beyond the dusty panes, the Silverton War Memorial Youth Camp sprawled across the red earth. Cabins with corrugated roofs sat huddled at the edge of the grounds, their tin walls gleaming dully under the merciless sun. Khaki tents pitched in neat rows rippled faintly in the breeze, their guy ropes taut like lines of a regiment on parade. At the far end of the clearing, a long mess hall stood sentinel, its weathered timbers dark against the pale sky. The faint clang of pots drifted on the air, mingled with the faint whiff of woodsmoke, evoking both welcome and unease.

Violet pressed her forehead to the window, her eyes roaming the grounds. At first, she let herself share the giddy anticipation of her friends—imagining midnight feasts, whispered confidences, and laughter echoing through the trees. But then her gaze snagged on a figure standing by the cabins, arms folded across his chest, posture erect and watchful.

Mr Clarke.

Her heart stuttered painfully. He was not in uniform but in his usual shirt and slacks, a clipboard tucked under his arm as though he were inspecting a field trip rather than a youth camp. His hair caught the sun, giving it a copper glint, but his face was in shadow. Even at this distance, Violet felt his eyes on her, sharp and knowing. A ripple of unease unfurled in her stomach, souring the joy that had buoyed her moments earlier.

“Vi, you alright?” Rebecca asked, nudging her gently. She had been watching her, perceptive as always.

Violet startled, forcing a thin smile. “Yeah. Just... taking it all in.”

The bus door hissed open, releasing a blast of warm air and a chorus of cicadas. A camp leader clambered aboard, her khaki shirt crisp, her whistle swinging like a badge of authority. “Alright, girls! Grab your things and let’s get moving. Find your tent groups—names are posted on the boards by the mess hall.”

The aisle filled instantly, voices rising in a tangle of excitement as rucksacks banged against seats and sleeping bags tumbled to the floor. Michelle was already halfway down the aisle, Mandy close behind, both eager to claim their bunks. Rebecca lingered beside Violet, her calm presence grounding her in the sudden chaos.

Violet slung her rucksack over her shoulder, her gaze flicking once more to the figure near the cabins. Mr Clarke had not moved. He stood as though rooted to the earth, watching the bus disgorge its passengers. For a fleeting second, their eyes met across the dust and distance. His expression was unreadable, but Violet’s skin prickled, her mind filling with the memory of his voice in that empty classroom: There are forces you couldn’t begin to comprehend.

She blinked and looked away, her throat tight.

The moment Violet’s boots hit the ground, she was engulfed by a wave of heat and noise. Dust rose in lazy swirls around the bus wheels, coating the air with the dry tang of the Outback. Excited voices interwove with the rhythmic calls of magpies, and the whole camp seemed to hum with barely restrained energy. Girls already settled dashed past with shouts of hello, lugging billycans or waving in greeting, their laughter carrying across the grounds like music.

“Welcome to Silverton, girls!” A voice rose above the din. Its owner strode forward with the confidence of long experience—Mrs Thompson, tall and upright, her grey-streaked hair tucked neatly beneath a khaki brimmed hat. Her smile was genuine, crinkling the skin around her eyes into warm creases. “I’m Mrs Thompson, head camp leader. We’re thrilled to have you here.”

A chorus of responses greeted her, eager voices rising in unison.

Violet managed a smile as she took it all in. The camp was alive with a vibrancy she had almost forgotten existed—rucksacks thudding onto verandas, girls crouched in earnest debate over bed choices, the occasional shriek of laughter from someone who had found a spider in her gear. Sunlight poured down in thick, golden sheets, catching on the dusty plumes of air and turning them to haze. The gum trees overhead whispered in the breeze, casting long, shifting shadows across a carpet of wildflowers that glowed defiantly against the ochre soil.

She wanted to let herself sink into that warmth, to let it swallow the weight she had been carrying. For a moment she almost managed it—until her gaze strayed to the edge of the gathering.

There stood Mr Clarke.

His presence was quiet but unmistakable. Clipboard still in hand, he spoke low to one of the younger leaders, his free hand gesturing towards the cabins. He looked entirely at ease, as though this was his natural domain rather than a camp of girls and women where his lone male figure stood out starkly. A faint smile played at his lips as he nodded at something the leader said, but when his eyes flicked up, just for a heartbeat, they locked on Violet.

Her stomach tightened. The moment passed as quickly as it came—he turned back to the conversation, expression unreadable—but it was enough. A shiver threaded its way down her spine.

“Right, let’s get you settled in,” Mrs Thompson was saying, her clear voice snapping Violet back to the present. “Cabin Three for you girls—just down that path. Unpack, have a wash if you need, and meet back here in thirty minutes. We’ll go over rules, duties, and of course the fun bits.”

Michelle groaned theatrically. “Rules first? Tragic!” She slung her rucksack over one shoulder and elbowed Mandy, who nearly dropped her bag of snacks.

Mandy grinned sheepishly. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep us supplied through the suffering.”

Rebecca just rolled her eyes, though the small smile tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement. “Come on. Let’s see what Cabin Three looks like before you two start planning world domination.”

Violet followed, her boots crunching against the gravel path. Yet her mind wasn’t on the cabin, nor on the promise of singalongs and campfires. Instead it lingered, against her will, on that single glance across the camp—the kind that felt less like being noticed and more like being marked.

As they made their way along the gravel track towards Cabin Three, Mandy gave a low whistle. “This place is incredible,” she said, her eyes sweeping the expanse of camp with theatrical wonder. “I feel like we’ve stepped into some kind of outback adventure novel. Next thing you know, we’ll be fending off bushrangers.”

“Or snakes,” Rebecca added dryly, adjusting the strap of her rucksack. “You’d better hope you packed more than chocolate bars, Mandy.”

Mandy clutched her bag protectively to her chest. “Snakes don’t eat crisps. Everyone knows that.”

Michelle snorted. “Bet they’d eat you if you coated yourself in enough sugar. Which, knowing you, you probably already have.”

The laughter that followed was infectious, and Violet found herself smiling despite the familiar tug of unease that lingered like a shadow at the back of her mind. She drank in the sights and sounds as though they were medicine: the peppery scent of eucalyptus drifting on the breeze, the crunch of gravel beneath their boots, the chatter of girls darting between cabins, their voices bright and carefree. For the first time in what felt like days, Violet’s chest loosened enough to draw in a full breath without the press of dread weighing it down.

And yet—there it was. Always. That quiet, stubborn whisper of vigilance. A sense that this was merely a pause, a brief lull before the next storm.

Their cabin appeared at the bend of the track, squat and sturdy, its weathered timbers sun-bleached and cracked in places. A tin roof gleamed dully in the morning light, while faded green shutters flanked windows that opened wide to let in the air. A hand-painted sign above the door read Cabin 3, its lettering cheerful but peeling, as though countless summers had worn away its edges.

Inside, the space was simple but welcoming: rows of bunks against the walls, mattresses already dressed with bright sleeping bags and woollen blankets, and the faint, lingering scent of woodsmoke and musty canvas. Sunlight streamed in through the slatted windows, catching the dust motes that danced lazily in the still air.

“Top bunk!” Michelle shouted, vaulting up the ladder before anyone else could lay claim. “Dibs forever.”

“You mean until you fall off in your sleep,” Rebecca muttered, shaking her head as she chose a lower bunk.

“Better than being stuck down there with spiders,” Michelle shot back from above, already fluffing her pillow triumphantly.

Violet let their chatter wash over her as she set her bag at the foot of a lower bunk near the window. She ran her fingers along the sill, tracing the grooves and knots in the timber, each imperfection a relic of past summers, past girls who had sat in this very spot whispering secrets or writing letters home. Outside, the sounds of the camp drifted in—pots clanging in the mess hall, a whistle calling for assembly, the chatter of magpies. It felt timeless, a place suspended apart from the world.

She closed her eyes briefly, breathing it in. This—this she wanted to hold on to. However brief, however fragile.

Still, when she opened her eyes, her gaze was drawn back through the open window. Across the camp, near the main lodge, she caught sight of Mr Clarke again, his tall figure cutting a sharp silhouette against the brightness of the gum trees. Clipboard still in hand, he bent to speak to one of the younger leaders. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, but when his head turned ever so slightly, Violet had the unnerving sense he was aware of her gaze.

Her stomach tightened, though she forced herself to look away.

“Come on, Vi,” Mandy said, plopping dramatically onto the bunk beside her. “Don’t tell me you’re daydreaming already. We’ve only just arrived!”

Violet smiled faintly. “Just taking it all in.”

“Good,” Mandy said with mock-seriousness. “Because this is going to be the best week of our lives.”

Violet wanted—so badly—to believe her.