In the Deep

by White, Loreth Anne

“Stop!”

  I whimpered, shaking. Tears burned into my eyes. His fingers dug into my skin.

  “Ellie,” he said very quietly, darkly.

  “Please . . . please let me go.” My voice was hoarse.

  “Step away from the wall, Ellie.”

  I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

  “Ellie. Focus. Look at me.”

  Slowly I turned my head. He pointed the tip of his knife at the brick wall. “See that? You need to move away from that. Now.”

  I tried to focus. His blade tip pointed at a spider with a shiny carapace and hairy legs, which were raised at me, its fangs back—poised to attack.

  “It’s poisonous,” he said quietly as I stared at the spider. “A funnel-web. One of the most venomous in the world. You need to step away—you were going to put your hand right on it.”

  My gaze went to his knife, the blood. There was more blood on his arms and on his shirt. He let me go and I hurriedly moved away from the wall. He set the knife on a wooden table. A fish-cleaning station. A big fish that had been sliced down the middle was splayed open on the table, moist flesh glistening in the sun. Entrails curled in a pink and bloody heap beside the fish. Shiny scales stuck everywhere. Fat flies buzzed over the kill. Next to the table was a stainless steel counter with a basin with a tap.

  “Zog went fishing,” he said. “He brought us a bonito. I was cleaning it. You spooked me—I had earbuds in. Was listening to music.” He paused, and a frown furrowed deep into his brow. “Are you okay? You didn’t think I—”

  “I got a fright.” I wiped my mouth with a shaky hand. “I . . . I was looking for you. I called you. I . . . heard a thump.”

  “Must have been me chopping that bonito’s head off.” I noticed his wireless headphones resting on a small wooden shelf that had been affixed to the garage wall above the fish-cleaning station. I couldn’t seem to find words. I was still thinking about the rough sex, the sense I’d cried out for him to stop—yet I wasn’t sure what had happened.

  “Why don’t you go inside, Ellie, and I’ll take care of the spider and finish up with the fish here. Then we can maybe go for a walk? I can show you around?”

  His voice was kind, his eyes gentle.

  I tried to speak, but my mind had collapsed in on itself, and this fact alone scared the stuffing out of me. It was like I was still drugged.

  “Ellie?”

  “Your truck,” I said abruptly. “Where is it?”

  “The ute? I loaned it to Zog to haul his boat out of the launch. His is being repaired. It’s why he gave us such a big guy.” He nodded to the splayed fish.

  “Who’s Zog?”

  “He owns the Single Fin. A surf shop on the beach road. I’ll take you past there when we go for a walk.” He paused. “Okay?”

  “I couldn’t find my phone.”

  “Oh—I’m sorry.” He wiped his hands on a rag, then reached into the side pocket of his cargo shorts. “Here you go.” He handed me my phone. “I thought I’d do you a favor while you were sleeping. I took it to get a new SIM card—had it all set up for Australia.”

  I took the phone and stared at it. Not only had he unpacked my clothes and cosmetics, he’d gone into my phone. “Thank you,” I said quietly.

  “You still feeling off?”

  I thought about the raw skin of my private parts, the tenderness between my thighs, my blank memory. The stash of pills he’d seen. Cautiously I said, “I’m just really jet-lagged.”

  A smile returned to his face. “But last night was good.”

  I blinked.

  “The sex,” he said.

  I swallowed. “I . . . I was really tired.”

  “You don’t remember?” Worry darkened his eyes.

  Heat seared into my cheeks.

  “Hey, it’s okay, El. I’m not surprised. You went out like a light. All that wine.” He paused. “On top of those pills.”

  Heat deepened in my face. I didn’t remember more wine—any wine. But I had tasted old alcohol in my mouth this morning. And I couldn’t argue the pills. He angled his head, watching me intently. “Are you sure you’re doing okay?”

  No, I’m not sure of anything right now.

  I nodded. “I . . . I think I’ll start unpacking some of my boxes in the studio.”

  I needed to ground myself. Those boxes I’d shipped over the ocean contained my art supplies and paintings and sketches as well as framed photos of friends and family, plus other knickknacks that helped define who I was, what I did. I wanted to unpack everything, hang the pictures and photos up on those clinical white walls and stamp something of myself on this place—something that might help make me feel more real, because I couldn’t shake the growing distance I felt between my normal self and reality. I couldn’t quite absorb this new land yet, the scope of this adventure, and how I’d gotten to be here so fast. Neither could I shake the lingering fuzziness in my brain. Perhaps it really was just a serious wallop of jet lag, but I didn’t like the cool fingers of paranoia starting to scratch at the edges of my consciousness again, trying to get in. I didn’t like the disquiet I was feeling about my own husband.

  “Great idea,” he said, and turned back to the fish.

  I cast another glance up at the neighbor’s window. No one was there. I proceeded down to my studio on the water, trying to shake the sensation of being trapped and watched. Like prey.

  THEN

  ELLIE

  Martin took me to the headlands first.

  “It’s a good place for surfers to come check the swell,” he explained. “You also get an amazing view of the small boats trying to get in or out of the Bonny River when the bar is breaking. It becomes quite the spectator sport. See down there?” He pointed to where the mouth fanned brown into blue sea. “That’s where the boat launch is. And over there—” He swung his arm northward. “Those sheer orange cliffs in the distance—that’s the Point of No Return.”

  “And straight out ahead of us?” I asked.

  He grinned. “The Tasman Sea pretty much all the way to New Zealand.”

  We left the lookout and wended along the cliff path that ran in front of high-end houses full of glass windows overlooking the sea. Exotic birds darted everywhere. I stopped to watch a “cocky” drink from a stone birdbath. It was bombed by a flock of lories. Everything seemed to be fighting here, and loud about it. Martin pointed out a kookaburra pecking in the grass among a flock of pink galah birds. He took me onto a little trail that led down to the beach, carving switchbacks through the cliff scrub. A rabbit darted across our path and Martin explained how domesticated rabbits had gone feral and become a problem.

  “Shooters are occasionally hired to exterminate them—safer than poison.”

  “What did you do with the funnel-web?”

  “Killed it. Before it kills us.”

  I shot him a glance.

  He laughed. “The funnel-web might be responsible for all spider-bite deaths in this part of Aus, but no fatalities have actually been recorded since the introduction of an antivenin in the eighties.” He took my hand and helped me down the last steep pitch to the beach. Small stones dislodged by our feet rolled down the incline to the water.

  “You’ve just got to be cognizant of your surroundings, that’s all. You can see its web easily if you know what to look for. It spins a series of fine trip lines that radiate out from a lair which is shaped like a funnel. The spider lives deep inside the funnel, and when an insect stumbles into one of the trip lines, the spider rushes out at extreme speed, grabs and bites the prey, then drags it down to the bottom of the funnel into its home, where it sucks the living juices out of its prey.”

  The idea of being murdered after innocently walking into a soft line of silk gave me a dark feeling. We reached the sand, took off our sandals, and strolled hand in hand along the shore, like in the movies. Afterward we sat in the dunes for a while, watching the waves and the sinking sun while I sipped hot coffee from a flask Martin had brought in a small backpack. He didn
’t want any.

  “I had a mug before leaving home,” he said.

  The surfers off the point were having a rough time in the crashing waves, most of them heading back into shore as the sun lowered. I thought of Chloe drowning at a famous surfing beach. Memories of Doug resurfaced. Our old life, the old me, seemed so far away. What had happened to me? Who was I now?

  What had I come to?

  It’s not forever, Ellie. You’re here for an adventure. You came because you fell in love with this man and want to share his dream.

  I glanced at him. His profile. His strength. His substance. He turned to me and smiled, and I glimpsed his dimples, the Martin I loved again. Yet the eerie sensation lingered that I’d made a mistake.

  My mind turned to the brochure with my dad’s name on it. The deception. I opened my mouth to mention it again, but bit back the words, preferring to avoid confrontation again, at least for now. I’d circle back later when I’d fully recovered from this weird jet lag and thickness in my head.

  “What are you thinking?” he said.

  “I . . . I was thinking about maybe trying to go back into the waves.” I surprised myself—the words just tumbled out of my mouth, and the idea took hold. “Perhaps if I did—if I faced my fear of rough water, it would clear some of the mental blocks I’ve got around losing Chloe. That swim in the Cook Islands was like a first step. Maybe . . . maybe I am ready for the next.”

  He observed me intently. “Perhaps you’re right, El. Maybe you should try.”

  I nodded. “Maybe. Eventually.”

  “You might stop blaming yourself for Chloe’s death.”

  My gaze flared to his. Acid burned into my throat. It was fine for me to say, but out of his mouth it veered toward accusatory.

  “It must have been so awful when they found her little body . . . The police questioning you on top of it all, as if they thought you could be guilty. As if you could have let her go on purpose.”

  Perhaps Martin did believe I was to blame.

  “Yeah,” I said quietly, darkly.

  He fell silent, and I sensed tension continuing to build around him. After a few moments: “I saw all the pills, Ellie.”

  “You shouldn’t have gone through my things,” I said, facing the sea.

  Waves crashed. The wind turned cool and blew harder.

  “Is that why the wine went to your head so fast yesterday?” he asked. “Is that why you passed out—because you drank on top of more meds?”

  I positioned my coffee cup in the sand. I wanted to come clean. I wanted nothing to hide between us. I glanced at him. His eyes were as blue as the sky behind him. It felt as though I were looking right through his head into the heavens. He looked worried, concerned.

  “Look, maybe I shouldn’t have unpacked your things. I’m sorry. But I was just trying to help, trying to make you feel welcome. I thought you’d be grateful. And once I saw the pills I couldn’t unsee them.”

  I nodded.

  “That Ativan—it’s a benzodiazepine. Benzos are highly addictive. I mean, highly.” He paused. “Ellie, I know you’ve had problems in the past, but I thought you were good now.”

  “I am. I stopped the pills. Honest. But my fear of flying remains a problem, and I need some meds to avoid a full-blown panic attack in the air.” I hesitated. “The last time I had an anxiety attack the pilot had to make an emergency landing. The crew thought I was having a heart attack. I just couldn’t have that happening again, especially while flying on my own.”

  He regarded me in silence for a while. “You took benzos on our Europe and Vegas trips?”

  I nodded. “Small doses. And only for flying. But I was worried about coming here with a new medical system and . . . having to go through a new doctor and . . .” My words faded.

  “You were afraid of a relapse? And you wanted to feel secure, with a big backup supply?”

  “Maybe. I think so. And in case we have to fly somewhere again.”

  He pursed his lips and studied the sea for a long while. “What are the side effects?” he asked quietly.

  “Nothing much if I take just small doses.”

  “And with a bigger dose?”

  “When they wear off I can feel shaky . . . sort of panicky sometimes.”

  “See? This is why they’re addictive, El, because then you’ll want more in order to stop the withdrawal symptoms, and it becomes a vicious spiral.”

  He was right.

  “I’m sorry,” I said softly. “I’m not who you thought I was. I’m a bit of a mess still.”

  He took my hand in his, laced his fingers through mine. “We’ll do this together, okay, El? We’ll be open with each other. If you keep talking to me, I can keep helping you. A team, right? Our second chance—” Emotion caught his voice and shone in his eyes. “I don’t want to blow this.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “I’m truly sorry I pushed you yesterday. I should have seen how badly you needed to sleep after you landed. I . . . This is why you need to talk to me. I hadn’t realized.” He squeezed my hand tightly.

  Emotion surged into my throat. Martin leaned forward and kissed my cheek. So gently that I knew with sudden and firm conviction that my nightmare had been just that—a stupid, terrible, feverish dream that had probably grown out of jet lag, dehydration, the aftereffects of wine and the Ativan plus some rough and exuberant but good and healthy sex that my fogged-up brain just never encoded into memory.

  “I’ll stop the pills—I promise,” I said. And I felt better for voicing it.

  “I’m here for you, okay?”

  I nodded, reached for my mug. I took another sip of coffee, and a feeling of benevolence and warmth bloomed through my chest. I actually felt happy having gotten that out of the way.

  “It’s getting late,” he said as the sun slipped into the sea. “How about stopping for a bite at the Puggo on the way home? We can do Zog’s fish on the barbie tomoz.”

  “Puggo?”

  “The Pug and Whistler,” he said with a grin. “Puggo for short.”

  I laughed, suddenly light inside again. “Of course it is. Is nothing in this country safe from hypocorism?”

  “Hypo-what?”

  “Turning words into diminutive or cutesy-folksy forms.”

  “That’s your degree in literature talking.” He chuckled, got to his feet, and held out his hand.

  I allowed him to pull me to my feet, and I punched him playfully on the arm. “Tease.”

  But as we started up the dune path toward the road, I lost my balance and stumbled in the soft sand. He stopped and eyed me.

  Sweat prickled my skin.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, just feel a bit . . . odd again.”

  Concern reentered his eyes. “We can go right home.”

  “No. No, it’s fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course.”

  He placed his hand at the small of my spine and guided me up the dune path and onto the sidewalk. There was a public washroom off the sidewalk with a mosaic mural on the wall. Beside it was an outdoor shower where surfers rinsed off their wet suits and boards. I suddenly became conscious of a brown sedan parked across the road. I stilled.

  A man in the driver’s seat watched us. As I stared at him he powered up the window. I frowned. I wasn’t sure why the car had caught my eye in the first place. Maybe it was just that eerie sense of being observed. I’d read somewhere long ago that our bodies can be aware of things when our brains aren’t. Perhaps my unconscious had picked up something.

  When we reached the end of the beach road, I glanced back. The dark sedan had pulled out of its parking spot. It was coming slowly up the road behind us.

  THEN

  ELLIE

  I was so absorbed watching the car following us that I tripped on the uneven paving of the sidewalk.

  “You okay?” Martin asked.

  “I wish you’d stop saying that,” I snapped. “You make it sound like
there’s something wrong with me.”

  “You’re stumbling a lot, El.”

  “It’s nothing. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Did you take another one of those Ativan before leaving the house?”

  My chest cramped.

  “Ellie? We need to be open, remember?”

  “I . . . needed something after—after that spider, seeing all the blood on you. It made me panicky. I needed to take the edge off.”

  “Do you have any pills on you now?”

  Guilt washed hot up my throat. “No,” I lied. “I’m going to be fine. I told you. It’s just . . . I need to wean myself off them slowly.” I’d been here before. Tapering was better than cold turkey. This was a medical fact. Going cold turkey could spark a resurgence of psychiatric symptoms that had lain dormant during the drug use. From experience I knew this could lead to severe anxiety, PTSD symptoms, OCD, depression. The last time I’d weaned myself off the meds I’d done it with the help of a psychiatrist because I’d been in the hospital after stabbing Doug—a court-mandated thing.

  Martin nodded. We walked in silence, and I sensed the shift in his mood. He was worried. Perhaps he’d take all my meds and destroy them. Perhaps I should hide the pills before he could.

  “You know, I think we should go fishing tomorrow,” he said with a glance up at the sky, which was turning a soft indigo in the increasing twilight. “Weather should be good. It’ll get your mind off the meds.”

  A statement. Not a question.

  “I . . . was hoping to settle into my studio properly, get back to work. I have that deadline looming.”

  “You’ll like it—you’ll see. A mental break will be good. We’ll go out to the FAD. It’s not far off the continental shelf. Where the blue water is, where the giant pelagic swim. It’ll be great.”

  “What’s a FAD?”

  “Fish aggregation device. A man-made object—usually some kind of buoy tethered to the deep ocean floor with concrete blocks. They’re deployed by state fisheries up and down the coast and used to attract oceangoing fish like marlin, tuna, dolphin fish, sharks. The fish tend to congregate around the FADs, swimming in varying orbits and at varying depths around the device. They’re funded by fishing license fees. Like a fish magnet.”