He had been here, that was clear from the marks in the dust. And he had been alone. That, too, was evident in the boot prints at each of the three houses. His movements could be traced with some precision, the scuffs and scrapes showing where he had walked. Along the length of a verandah, up a hallway and then back again, into a kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom. The dust showed where he had arrived and where he had left. One set of prints in, one set out.
It was almost believable from a distance that someone could still be living in the houses, but up close the illusion quickly crumbled. The truth was revealed in the detail.
The white cottage that looked so postcard-pretty perched at the top of a winding track, with its green coat of ivy reaching up toward the roof, had an odd quality on nearer inspection. The snaking vines smothered the exterior, binding the walls tight and choking the features. Hungry for more space, the growth had wormed its way through the cracks in the windowsills and doorways and was now slowly consuming the rooms inside.
To the west, a kilometer down the hillside, the Hillary farmhouse appeared more hospitable, but only at first glance. The broad wooden gate that used to swing open and closed smoothly and often, had for several years now been wedged permanently ajar with leaves and debris gathering in dunes at the bottom of the posts. The home's weatherboard façade was barely clinging on to its last coat of paint, the cream color flaking away like a scab to show the raw, gray wood beneath. Three sagging steps led to an empty covered porch. The front door was missing. Where it had once stood firm and solid, painted a warm yellow, there was now a vacant rectangle of space. The home gaped open, its threshold unguarded, vulnerable and exposed to the elements.
The third house, across the paddocks to the east this time, did not look inviting even from a distance. The low sandstone bungalow had been decisively boarded up and was now sealed firm and tight, wooden panels nailed across its windows like a blindfold.
Each of the three houses had its own curving track. All were wide enough for a vehicle and all still carried a vague suggestion of having once been welcoming, but the surfaces now lay uneven and rough, overgrown in places with creeping weeds. The three tracks forged their own routes from the front of each home and down through the paddocks, until they met near the southern fence line. There, they converged for a short stretch to form a single access point from a country road. It had always been known as a quiet route, but now the road could often sit wholly undisturbed as a full day slipped away, morning to night.
The monotony had been broken that afternoon, though.
The bright red hatchback that had trundled up to the access point was small, with compact tires and a suspension designed for city motoring. It was a rental car, chosen for its affordability above anything else. From inside the vehicle, the chip and ping of small stones bouncing off the paintwork could be heard over the frantic whir of the air conditioner.
The driver, a reluctant owner of the cheapest legal level of motor insurance, had winced from behind the wheel at each sound. It was his birthday; he had turned twenty-one years old that morning. His laptop bag jiggled on the passenger seat as he turned off the asphalted country road and onto the dirt track leading to the three houses.