Welcome to New Norfolk

“Nothing dredges up old family wounds like a badly timed delivery and the smell of something you can’t un-smell.”

"Welcome to New Norfolk," I muttered dryly, my tone as flat as the landscape unfolding outside the truck window. The sign announcing our arrival loomed ahead in faded paint and rusted metal, as if even the town itself had grown weary of welcoming anyone.

I pressed my forehead to the cool glass, closing my eyes for a moment. My stomach twisted again, another sickening surge threatening to rise. I swallowed hard, fighting the tide back down. It was becoming a pattern—waves of nausea washing over me, each one a physical echo of the horrors we were trying to outrun.

"What's the address?" Beatrix asked, her voice cutting through the fog that clouded my thoughts.

"Oh… um…" My fingers fumbled for the manifest, the now-crumpled page damp and warm in my lap. I smoothed it out against my thigh with trembling hands, the paper catching on my jeans as I tried to flatten it. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The corners of the page tore slightly beneath my restless fingers.

"Gladys!" Beatrix snapped, her voice sharp enough to slice clean through my daze.

"27 Bettong Road," I blurted, the words tumbling out before I could fully register what I was reading.

"Shit," Beatrix muttered, her tone low and tight.

My eyes scanned the entry again, and my heart lurched. The surname leapt off the page like a warning sign. "Isn't that Uncle Lance's house?" I asked, dread pooling in my stomach like cold lead.

"Yeah," Beatrix confirmed grimly. “It is.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. Of all people. Of all places. Shit. Uncle Lance.

Mum’s brother. The walking embodiment of family tension and ancient grievances. I’d seen him a few months ago, when I heard about the birth of his daughter, Isabel. The visit had been short and awkward, conducted in hushed tones and careful silences, a temporary truce wrapped in politeness. It was the first time I’d seen him since the Christmas before last—that Christmas.

The day everything exploded.

Lance and Amy had come for lunch, and Mum, halfway through her second bottle of merlot, had decided to resurrect every unresolved grudge from the last two decades. What started with passive-aggressive jabs about parenting had escalated into a full-blown screaming match in front of the pavlova. Amy stormed out in tears. Lance followed, slamming the door so hard it shook the tinsel off the bannister. Mum had wasted no time issuing an ultimatum: cut them off. No exceptions.

Now, here we were. A truck full of questionable goods. A body still warm in our memories. And Uncle Lance next on the list.

Brilliant.

I could barely form a thought. Every nerve in my body was screaming in protest at the idea of facing him. What would he say when he saw us? What if he recognised the truck? What if he asked questions we couldn’t answer?

“Maybe we can leave their package in the letter box?” I offered hopefully, the words coming out with more desperation than logic. It was grasping at straws, but I’d take anything to avoid knocking on that door.

"I don't think so, Gladys," Beatrix replied flatly. Her voice was steeped in that maddening practicality of hers, always cutting through my flimsy optimism. "I don't remember seeing any packages small enough to fit in a letter box."

I exhaled sharply, defeated. "We'll just sneak up and leave it on the front doorstep then," I mumbled, forcing a note of resolve into my voice. The words tasted like fear.

"We?" Beatrix arched an eyebrow, a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. "I think you mean you."

"What!" My voice leapt an octave, pure disbelief ringing out as my hand shot to the window for balance. The truck jolted suddenly, the front tyres bumping hard over the kerb, sending a judder through the whole vehicle. "What are you doing? I’m sure his house is further down the road."

"It is," Beatrix agreed calmly, though her hands tightened slightly on the wheel.

"Then what?" My stomach pitched again, this time not from nausea but from confusion laced with dread.

Beatrix sighed through her nose. "Well, if we're trying to cover up a murder, I'm not going to pull a truck up outside the front of their house. That's way too obvious."

I stared at her. She wasn’t wrong—but that didn’t mean I liked where this was going. Every instinct in me recoiled at the idea of going to that door alone. Of seeing Lance. Of whatever expression might be on his face.

Still, I knew there was no way out of it. Not really. We were in too deep, and logic had long since stopped offering escape routes.

Beatrix gave me a firm nudge towards the door, her hand not unkind but utterly unsympathetic. "Just do it, Gladys," she said, her voice low and insistent.

I swallowed hard and stared at the crumpled manifest in my lap. The ink had started to smudge slightly from where my thumb had been pressing into it, the pressure of my anxiety now visibly imprinted onto the page. With a deep breath that did little to calm the flurry in my chest, I pushed open the door.

Reluctantly, I slid from the seat and lowered myself to the ground, the gravel crunching sharply beneath my shoes. The cold air hit me with a bite, carrying the scent of dry leaves and something faintly metallic. I turned back to the cab. “What parcel is it?” I called, suddenly struck by the absurd realisation that I didn’t even know what I was meant to deliver.

“I don’t know,” Beatrix replied, her tone maddeningly casual. “Read the labels.”

Typical. I rolled my eyes and muttered something unpleasant under my breath, then stalked away from her in a huff, the gravel grinding louder under my brisk, irritated steps. My emotions were tangled — a taut rope of frustration, embarrassment, and raw apprehension twisting tighter with every moment.

My fingers gripped the cold metal latch of the truck’s rear door. With a strained yank, I opened it, wincing as the hinges shrieked like something wounded. For one paralysing second, I froze, heart in my throat, half-expecting another corpse to greet me. A bloodied heap, a lifeless stare. My breath caught.

But no. Just five modestly sized parcels, neatly arranged and entirely unthreatening.

I exhaled loudly, my shoulders sagging in relief. Okay. No bodies. No blood. Just boxes. I felt almost giddy with gratitude at the sight.

Climbing into the back of the truck proved harder than I’d anticipated. My first attempt saw me awkwardly flailing against the bumper like a drunken ballerina. The second time, I managed to hoist myself up with a grunt of effort, knees scraping against the metal floor. It felt undignified. Everything about today did.

I reached for the nearest box and squinted at the label in the truck’s dim light. “Lance Cradock.” My eyes widened. Perfect! I grinned faintly — a rare win. And on the first try!

Balancing the parcel under one arm, I eased myself to the edge of the truck’s floor. My legs dangled down, scuffing the bumper, heart beating faster again as I prepared to jump. Just a simple drop. Easy.

Shit!

The box slipped from my grasp before I even made it to the ground. My arms shot out instinctively to catch it, but the sudden movement tipped me sideways. I fell — ungracefully and with a heavy thud — landing on the bitumen in a heap beside the parcel.

A groan escaped me as I sat up. I retrieved the box and examined it with a frown. One corner had crumpled inward from the fall, a bit of gravel now wedged into the cardboard. “Great,” I muttered. There wasn’t much I could do, not without drawing more attention — so I gave a resigned shrug and stood.

Slamming the truck door closed behind me with a loud clang, I walked around to the passenger side. In a strange effort to centre myself, I stepped along the edge of the gutter, one foot in front of the other like I was on a balance beam. I imagined it was something meditative, something to calm my nerves — but the moment I reached the front of the truck and leaned to push the door closed, I lost my balance.

“Ahh—” I gasped, arms pinwheeling as I slipped off the kerb. By sheer luck, I managed to catch myself before hitting the ground. A flicker of triumph rose in me. Still got it.

But fate wasn’t done. As soon as I turned toward the footpath, my foot clipped the curb again, sending me stumbling forward. I flailed, recovered, and then — almost — tripped over a raised edge in the pavement. A low growl of frustration escaped me.

"Hey, Gladys?" Beatrix’s voice rang out from the truck, slicing through the silence.

I turned to see her leaning halfway out the passenger window, her expression somewhere between amusement and concern. That particular blend I’d grown used to — like watching a toddler wielding scissors.

"You can't be seen. You're supposed to be a man, remember?" she called, an undertone of urgency threading through her words.

I stared at her, blinking. A flicker of irritation coursed through me. Did she think I’d forgotten? That I’d go skipping up the path, hair flying, shouting my name for all of New Norfolk to hear?

“I know,” I muttered under my breath, the absurdity of it all scraping at what little patience I had left. I straightened up, squared my shoulders, and set my jaw with determination.

If I had to do this, I’d do it properly — even under the ridiculous pretence of being someone I wasn’t.

I could already feel my face flushing with embarrassment, but I forced myself forward, parcel in hand, heart pounding like it had no intention of ever slowing again.

As I walked along the uneven pavement, my stomach churned with an intensity that threatened to bring me to my knees. Each step sent an echo of discomfort through my gut, my body rebelling against me with the lingering effects of fear, wine, and revulsion. I pressed a hand against my belly, hoping—foolishly—that it might settle the storm that roiled within. But it was no use. Every pace forward felt like wading through wet cement, the package under my arm weighing heavier with each heartbeat, as though it carried the burden of the entire day's madness.

The house loomed closer, quiet except for the sharp, mewling cry of a baby—Isabel, no doubt—piercing the otherwise sleepy afternoon. The high-pitched sound needled straight through the fog in my skull, intensifying the throbbing ache behind my eyes. My head was a balloon full of wasps.

Climbing the three cement steps, I felt a sudden shift in the air—hot, foul, and putrid. It clung to the porch like invisible smog. My hand instinctively reached for the rusted metal pole to steady myself, fingers curling around the cold, chipped paint. But even that grip faltered as a wave of dizziness crashed over me. The box slipped from my other hand, landing with a dull thunk on the porch.

Then the smell hit.

It was as if death itself had curled up on the doorstep. My knees buckled, and I dropped hard onto the concrete, my stomach giving up what little it still contained. A violent rush of acid and cheap wine erupted from my mouth, splattering across the porch in a stream of bitter humiliation. My body shook from the force of it, and my eyes welled up—not with tears of emotion, but sheer, raw discomfort.

I wiped the back of my hand across my lips, disgusted, then caught a glimpse of something beside me. A crumpled plastic bag. I should have ignored it. I knew I should have. But my curiosity, morbid and persistent, got the better of me. I leaned closer and peered inside.

Instant regret.

A stinky, sagging, overstuffed nappy glared back at me. My stomach lurched again. I gagged, dry and sharp, and threw myself backward, spine hitting the cool brick wall of the house with a muted thud. The bricks felt solid, at least—unmoving in a world that refused to stay still.

"Shit," I breathed, dragging my sleeve across my chin, smearing what remained of the nausea from my skin. My hand trembled as I reached for the fallen package. A new dent stared up at me accusingly, accompanied by a few rebellious splatters of red-tinged vomit staining the cardboard. I stared at it, despair blooming in my chest like a bruise.

Of course. Of course this would happen.

With a grimace, I placed the sullied box down beside the offending nappy bag, pairing shame with shame. My legs ached as I pushed myself upright again, limbs stiff with the weight of everything. I turned without looking back and stumbled down the steps, away from the porch, from the baby’s wails, from the stench—and from a chapter of family dysfunction I had never wanted to revisit.

The passenger door of the truck gave a loud, grating creak as I pulled it open. I climbed in, limbs leaden, and slammed the door shut harder than I meant to. The sound was jarring. "Let's get out of here," I muttered, voice hollow, my breathing still uneven as I sank into the seat, desperate to put it all behind me.

Beatrix said nothing. She simply tucked her phone between her thighs and threw the truck into gear, jerking us forward with a jolt that mirrored my fraying nerves.

"No," I said suddenly, the word leaving my mouth before I could second-guess it. "Turn us around and go the other way."

Beatrix looked at me sharply, eyebrows narrowing in a silent interrogation.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry, tongue like felt. "Safer not to drive past their house," I added, barely louder than a whisper.

It wasn’t just about Uncle Lance. It wasn’t just about the parcel. It was everything. I needed that detour. I needed air.