The ghost at the table – Draft 03 – Chapter 01

Logan

The glow from multiple monitors bathed the small office in a harsh, artificial light. I sat there, Logan Robinson, amidst the chaos of my digital battleground. The desk was a minefield of papers and empty coffee mugs, remnants of countless skirmishes with unyielding code and stubborn systems.

My fingers flew across the keyboard, a rapid staccato rhythm that had been drilled into me during my time in the RAAF. It was a useful skill, but it couldn’t shield me from the frustration that crept up on me now. A client’s network was down, and I was knee-deep in the guts of their infrastructure, trying to breathe life back into it.

“Come on,” I muttered, the words barely audible over the hum of cooling fans. My brow furrowed as error messages popped up like unwelcome guests at a wake. This problem was a beast, gnashing its teeth at me through lines of code.

I leaned in closer, my face just inches from the screen. Blonde hair fell into my eyes, an annoying distraction.

“Invalid command.” The text blinked mockingly at me. I cursed under my breath. Mental anguish was a familiar friend, one I’d wrestled with since my military days. It clawed at my insides, eager to emerge at times like this when every logical solution slammed into a brick wall.

“Depression doesn’t exist in the armed forces,” the doc had said. Bullshit. It clung to me, a specter from the past, as I fought against the machine’s obstinance.

“Think, Logan,” I told myself, raking a hand through my hair. Friendship. That’s what kept me anchored in this quiet corner of Meningie. People who understood, who saw beyond the scars left by rigid command structures and the invisible wounds of mental battles.

“Got to fix this,” I growled, my voice a low rumble of determination. Every line of code was a step toward proving myself, pushing back the darkness with each keystroke.

“Can’t let them down.” The monitors stared back, indifferent. I wasn’t just troubleshooting for a client; I was upholding a lifeline in a town where everyone knew your business—the good, the bad, and the ugly parts you tried to hide.

With a deep breath, I dove back into the digital fray, ready to tear the problem apart byte by byte. The fight was on, and I wasn’t one to back down—not from this, not from anything.

The phone broke the silence—a jarring trill. I glanced at the caller ID. Dan. Unusual for him to call this time of day.

“Logan,” his voice cracked, “It’s Lily.”

“Dan? What about her?” My fingers stilled above the keyboard.

“Accident. The farm.” He choked on the words. “She’s gone, Logan.”

Gone. The word echoed, a hollow sound in my skull. “No, that can’t be right.”

“God, mate, I wish it wasn’t.” Desperation seeped through his attempt at composure. Tears, the kind you hear over a line—a grown man breaking.

My hand gripped the phone like a lifeline, knuckles white. “I’m so sorry, Dan.” Words felt useless, empty against the weight of his grief.

“Can you—” His voice faltered. “Can you come?”

“Of course.” I’d be there. That’s what friends do. They show up. Even when everything else falls apart.

I shot up from my chair. Papers scattered, a mess on the floor now, irrelevant. My heart hammered in my chest, thoughts of code and clients shoved aside. Lily was gone. The screens around me blinked unheeded as I grabbed my keys, their metallic jingle harsh in the tense air.

“Logan, wait!” someone called out. No time. Dan needed me.

The door slammed behind me, the office receding into the distance like some distant memory. My car waited outside—dull paint, faithful engine. I punched the ignition, the familiar rumble grounding me for a split second before I threw it into gear.

The tires screamed as I peeled away from the curb, the quaint streets of Meningie a blur. Speed limits be damned. Gravel spat from under the wheels, a staccato against the wheel wells, like the erratic beat of my pulse. I knew these roads like the back of my hand, every twist and turn etched into my mind.

Wide open fields rolled by, the sun dipping low, casting long shadows that stretched out over the land like ominous fingers. Lily had played in those fields. A kid’s laughter, silenced. My grip on the steering wheel tightened, knuckles white, the leather creaking under the strain.

“Focus, Logan,” I muttered to myself. “Get to Dan.”

Every bump and dip in the road, an accusation. Why hadn’t I visited more? Could I have changed anything? Pointless questions with no answers worth a damn.

As the kilometers ticked away, the silence in the car grew louder, heavy with the words I’d need to find when I saw Dan. Each thought of Lily, each memory, piled onto the next until I could hardly breathe.

“Stay strong,” I whispered, more command than reassurance. “For them.”

Finally, the familiar outline of Dan’s house came into view, a sanctuary in a world suddenly turned hostile. I pulled into the driveway, the car protesting as I braked hard. Engine off. Silence fell, save for the ticking of cooling metal.

“Here goes nothing,” I said to no one, stepping out into the chill evening air, my resolve set. For Dan, for Sarah, for Lily. This is what friends do—they show up. They stand together. Even when everything else falls apart.

Car door clicked shut behind me. Gravel crunched underfoot, each step a leaden march towards their front door. Dan’s house loomed, the setting sun casting it in a somber glow that seemed to suck the warmth from its walls. I hesitated, my heart hammering against ribs that felt too tight. The weight of what lay beyond that door pressed on my shoulders.

“Logan,” I coached myself, “just knock.”

My hand trembled as it rose—a leaf in a storm—before it fell upon the wood with a chime of finality. Knock, knock, knock. The sound was alien, intrusive, like it didn’t belong in the stillness of this tragedy.

The door swung open, and there they were—Dan and Sarah, her eyes red-rimmed, his jaw set in a line of despair. No words, just raw emotion as they took me in. We were three souls adrift in a sea of sorrow, clinging to the wreckage of what used to be.

“Logan.” Dan’s voice broke on my name, simple acknowledgment that carried the weight of worlds.

“Dan, Sarah.” My own voice sounded hollow in my ears, a poor tool to convey the depth of feeling welling up inside me.

Sarah moved first, a specter of pain as she folded into my arms, her body racked with sobs that echoed my own internal cries. Dan joined us, his embrace an anchor in the chaos, strong despite the tremors that shook him.

We stood there, on the threshold of their home, united in our grief. It was unspoken, the shared understanding that we’d weather this storm together. Because that’s what friends do—they show up, they stand together, even when the ground beneath them quakes.

And in that moment, I vowed silently to myself and to them—I’d be whatever they needed, for as long as they needed. Lily deserved that much.

Time moved like molasses as we sat in Dan and Sarah’s dimly lit living room, the air thick with the kind of silence that screams. A clock ticked somewhere, taunting us with its steady beat—a cruel reminder that life marched on, even when it felt like our worlds had stopped spinning.

“Tea?” Sarah’s voice was barely a whisper, a ghost of domestic normalcy.

“Thanks,” I muttered, though the lump in my throat doubted it could swallow anything. Sarah shuffled to the kitchen, movements sluggish, every step heavy with loss.

Dan stared at the worn carpet, his eyes tracing patterns that weren’t there. “I can’t believe she’s gone, Logan.” His voice fractured the stillness, raw and edged with disbelief.

“Me neither.” The words were a boulder in my chest. What could you say? Platitudes were empty, meaningless.

Sarah returned, hands trembling as she set down the mugs. The clink of ceramic was jarring. We sipped in silence—three people drinking tea as if it could warm the chill grief had settled in our bones.

“I keep thinking,” Sarah started, then paused, eyes lost to some distant point. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up and she’ll be here.”

I put a hand on her knee, squeezed. “I’m here for whatever you need. Both of you.” I locked eyes with Dan. He nodded, the gesture tight and small.

“Thanks, Logan.” His gratitude was sincere, but it was tinged with something else—helplessness, maybe.

The night dragged on, punctuated by shared memories and tears that came in waves. We talked about Lily—the spark of her laughter, the boundless energy of her youth. It hurt, but it was a cleansing kind of pain, washing over us and leaving a sort of numbness in its wake.

When conversation lulled to a standstill, my mind turned to darker thoughts. The farm. The gate. Negligence that cost more than they knew.

“Something’s not right about it,” I said finally, the words tasting like bile. “That gate should have been secure.”

Dan looked up, his face a mask of tortured agreement. “We trusted them. They said it was safe.”

“Safe,” I scoffed. The irony wasn’t lost on any of us.

“Logan…” Sarah’s voice trailed off, but her eyes begged me to say what she couldn’t.

“Someone’s gotta answer for this.” My knuckles whitened around the mug. “They can’t just brush this under the rug. It’s their fault.”

“Can we… can we do anything?” Dan’s eyes met mine, searching for hope in a hopeless situation.

“Trust me,” I said, feeling a fire ignite within me, a burning need to act. “I’ll find a way to make them pay. For Lily.”

“Thank you,” whispered Sarah, and the simple words carried the weight of a thousand unshed tears.

“Justice for Lily,” Dan echoed, the resolve in his voice matching my own.

We sat there, united not just by grief, but by a newfound purpose. The night closed in around us, but we would face it together—steadfast friends in the darkness, fighting for the flicker of light that was Lily’s memory.

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The office was a jumble of screens and wires, the hum of machinery my only company. I sank into the chair, the faux leather cool against my skin. The screen blinked to life, lines of code marching across it like soldiers. Work didn’t stop for grief. Neither did I.

I typed, fingers a blur. The clack of the keys was rhythmic, almost soothing. Clients still had problems. Systems still crashed. Life, stubbornly, went on. Lily’s face flashed in my mind, unbidden. My heart clenched. No system restore would bring her back.

“Focus, Logan,” I muttered. The code needed me. Dan and Sarah needed me more, but this was daytime, and daylight meant duty.

Evenings were different. The drive to Dan’s was muscle memory by now. Dust kicked up behind the car, a cloud in the rearview mirror. Sunset painted the sky in mourning purples and reds.

“Hey,” I said, stepping through their door. Hugs were exchanged, words unnecessary. Their sorrow hung thick, a tangible thing. We sat, we ate, we tried to laugh.

“Thanks for coming, mate,” Dan said. His voice was gravel, his eyes hollow. He was a shell of the man who ran for miles, who lived for weekends.

“Always,” I replied. It was truth, simple and stark. We were bound by more than friendship. We were keepers of each other’s sanity.

Sarah spoke little. Her glances were fleeting, haunted. She glanced at Dan most of the time, but occasionally she would sneak in a glance to me, and I would feel her eyes on me just in time to furtively return the look. Each silent outburst between Sarah and Dan chipped away at the walls of their home. I saw it, felt it. The air between them crackled with unsaid things. Lily’s name was the ghost at the table.

“Stay strong, you two,” I’d say as I left. A mantra, maybe. A hope, definitely. The night swallowed me whole, the stars above indifferent. But I’d be back tomorrow, and the day after. They weren’t just friends; they were my charge.

“Justice for Lily,” I whispered to the night. The promise was a stone in my gut. Heavy. Unyielding. I’d carry it, though. For them. For her.

The night was a shroud, my thoughts darker still. An oath made to Mum haunted me—a promise to stay straight, to be better than the old man ever was. But now, Lily’s ghost clawed at that vow, her laughter silenced by someone’s carelessness.

“Damn them,” I muttered, the words like shards of glass in my belly. The urge for revenge was a fire, uncontrolled and consuming. Every fiber shouted for justice, screamed to make them pay. My knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, the leather creaking under my grip.

Rural Meningie slept, oblivious to the storm inside me. Streetlights flickered, stars blinked. Life went on. It shouldn’t. Not for those responsible. Not while Dan and Sarah’s world crumbled to dust.

“Petty theft,” I whispered. The idea slithered into my mind, unbidden but welcome. Quick. Quiet. A lesson in loss. Could I? Should I? The debate raged. Steal from them, hurt them. Fair’s fair, right?

A plan took shape—a shadowy outline of retribution. Slip in, slip out. Leave them wondering, fearing. Let them feel a fraction of our pain. My heart hammered at the thought. It was something. It was action.

“Sorry, Mum,” I breathed, the whisper lost in the cold air. The night didn’t care for apologies or broken promises. Survival here—among the gum trees and vast, silent plains—depended on mateship. Loyalty. And sometimes, revenge.

I’d do it. For Lily. For Dan and Sarah. My hands were steady on the wheel as I drove home. They’d be just as steady when I taught those bastards a lesson they wouldn’t forget. Justice for Lily, whatever it took.

The engine died with a shudder. I stepped out into the night, boots crunching on gravel. Cold air bit at my skin, but inside, a fire raged. My mind was clear. The plan, simple.

I zipped up my jacket, the fabric whispering against the night’s silence. My breath hung in the air, a fleeting cloud soon gone. Just like Lily. Gone. But retribution? That would linger.

The farm’s fence loomed ahead. Wire and wood, nothing more. A barrier, not for me. Not tonight. I slipped on gloves, the leather snug and familiar. A second skin. They’d leave no trace, just like me.

I scaled the fence, swift and silent. Each movement deliberate. My heart thrummed a steady beat, a silent anthem for justice.

Shadows hugged the ground, cloaking my advance. I moved through them, part of the darkness. A ghost haunting those who needed reminding. They would remember.

The main shed materialised from the gloom. Metal and wood, filled with tools. Things they valued. A poor exchange for a life, but it was a start.

The lock was a joke. One clip, and it gave way. I pocketed the bolt cutters, a weighty promise in my hand.

Inside, the scent of oil and earth. Machines slumbered, unaware of the thief in their midst. I went for the small things. Commonly disregarded. Easily sold.

A GPS unit. Tablets. Radios. Each item I tucked away whispered Lily’s name. An inventory of justice.

“Sorry, mate,” I murmured to the empty space. Dan would understand. Sarah too. It belonged to Lily. For all of us.

I retraced my steps, leaving chaos subtle yet biting. Doors slightly ajar. Drawers rifled through. Nothing overt. Just enough. Enough for doubt to seep in. Fear to take root.

Back over the fence. Back to my car. My hands remained steady as I stowed the haul. Every action, every stolen piece, a tribute to friendship. To survival. It’s important to provide mutual support, especially when the environment becomes unfriendly.

I drove off, the car’s hum a quiet confession to the night. Meningie slept, but I was awake. Alive with purpose. For Lily. For justice.

The road home was long and dark, but my resolve never wavered. Not once.

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Child-sized. White, with white lilies draped over the top. Gold edging and gold handles.

The entire community of Meningie attended the service of Lily April Wilkins. Deaths happen in country towns, but it’s usually the death of an elderly pensioner or the suicide of an out-of-luck, end-of-their-tether farmer. The death of a six-year-old girl stood out as uncommon, and the town wanted to come and pay their respects. Shops and the pub shut down for the day.

Father Rob Bower from the Catholic Church took the service, and the Reverend Janette Masterton from the Anglicans ushered visitors to their seats and offered words of solace to those overcome with emotions.

Of which there were a few because Lily was a popular girl. Like her parents, she was active and curious. She was good with ball sports and was a keen hot-shotter, the tennis coaching program for kids. Popular with her schoolmates, her teachers loved her as a caring student who had no problems standing up to and for others. Her parents were besotted with her, as were her grandparents.

Dave and Sarah Wilkins sat at the front of the RSL Hall, their lips tight and their hands interlocked.

However, there was one notable absence at the service—the Chinese corporation that owned the farm where Lily had met her untimely end just two weeks prior. Dave, still grieving and angry at their lack of accountability, focused on comforting Sarah during the emotional ceremony.

Despite the scorching sun and crowded hall, it was a solemn day for all who mourned the loss of this child. This angel. This Lily.

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