It certainly was — and probably still is — the arsehole of the world.
—oooBJSooo—
I was correct in my assessment of Jimmy Brown’s intentions. He apparently drove from the bowls club over to the caravan park. Wrapping her dried-cum-stained body in a cum-soaked sheet, he loaded the still unconscious woman — he no longer thought of her as his wife — into his Toyota and drove her home.
Throwing her onto what had been ‘their’ marriage bed, he rifled through his draws and closet and packed a few changes of work clothes — he was wearing his only set of going out clothes — and his toiletries into his duffle bag. He then headed out through the kitchen, throwing his work boots and riding boots into his duffle as he passed through the mudroom. He then hoisted the fully-loaded bag into the rear passenger compartment of the dual-cab truck.
He then backed the Toyota over to his shed and fitted his camping canopy over the load tray. He then loaded his camping gear and whatever tools he didn’t already have in the truck into the back. The last items to go in were his chainsaw and his swag (bedroll).
After closing and locking the load tray, Jimmy Brown then threw his two stock saddles and another duffle bag containing his bridles, blankets and other horse-related gear into the rear passenger compartment.
Scottie McFadden wasn’t the only accomplished horseman in Uranus. In addition to his carpentry and handyman skills, Jimmy Brown had an excellent reputation for his gentle handling of horses he was given to break, train or educate.
With everything loaded, he rolled his boat — a fourteen-foot Corroboree fitted with a forty-horsepower Johnson outboard motor — out of the shed and hooked it onto the towbar. He’d bought the second-hand, motorless aluminium hull and galvanised steel trailer using money he’s scrimped and saved from his many fill-in jobs. After stripping the hull down to bare metal, he’d then spent the next two years painting it and setting it up the way he wanted it. The engine had less than ten hours on the clock. He knew he owned a good Murray Cod and Trout-fishing platform. He was now going to find out whether his luck with the southern species would hold when he went in search of Queensland’s notorious Barramundi.
By midnight, he was on his way north. This was a trip he’d been planning to take with his wife and children, so he knew where he’d find free overnight camping along the way. Stopping only for food, fuel and rest, he crossed the New South Wales-Queensland border early on Sunday afternoon. He decided to spend the night camped on the shores of an expansive lake about an hour’s drive north of the border.
He called his immediate supervisor first thing on Monday morning to let him know that he’d have to find another Shire Carpenter — which was his official designation. His supervisor — another of those who had fucked Jimmy Brown’s wife — advised him to send a formal letter of resignation through to the department head, which he did. His resignation letter — which was sent as a text — read, “Dear Sir, I quit. Effective immediately. Signed: Jimmy Brown”.