In the Deep

by White, Loreth Anne

  The brown car passed us and crawled slowly up the street. It turned into the road where we were headed. I noticed the registration plate—QUEENSLAND. SUNSHINE STATE—maroon characters against a white background. The numbers were covered by dirt, but I could make out the last three letters: GIN.

  We turned onto the street and I saw it again, parked ahead under a large gum with peeling bark. My pulse quickened. I stopped.

  “Do you see that car?” I said to Martin.

  “The brown Corolla? Yeah.”

  “It’s following us.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “It was parked across from our house when we left. And then I saw it across the street from the surfers’ shower when we came up from the beach. It followed us slowly, passed us, and now it’s waiting ahead of us.”

  His frown deepened. “Why would someone follow us, Ellie?”

  “I don’t know—you tell me.”

  We resumed walking, but at a slower pace, and he studied the Corolla intently as we closed in on it. He seemed worried, but I wasn’t sure whether it was about the car, or about me.

  “It’s a common model,” he said as we neared. “Did you happen to see the plate of the one parked outside our house?”

  “No.”

  The sedan suddenly pulled out from under the tree and drove quickly to the top of the road. Brake lights flared. It turned right and was gone. Wind gusted, flinging bits of bark at us. A flock of lories took flight with wild squawks.

  “It was probably a different Corolla outside our house,” he said. “The one up ahead was probably just some guy driving slowly to check the waves, and then he pulled over to answer his mobile—could be any number of explanations.”

  “I think someone was following us back home, too. In an orange Subaru.”

  He stopped dead. “What?”

  “Yeah. It was a flat orange color.”

  “You mean—like one of those Crosstreks?”

  “Yes.”

  Blood drained from his face. An unreadable look formed on his features. A vibrating energy, a palpable sense of purpose, coalesced around him. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see the driver of the orange Subaru? Or the plate?”

  “No. But I think the plate was a BC one—blue and white.”

  “What about the driver of the brown Corolla—did you get a look?”

  “Only a glimpse. He powered up the window as soon as I stared at him.”

  “He?”

  “A guy, yes.”

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  I considered this. “I don’t think so. His face was in shadow.”

  “Weird,” Martin said.

  We continued to the pub, but a cloud had descended over Martin. He walked faster, his shoulders forward like he was angry. I struggled to keep up. My breathing deepened. My anxiety grew sharper.

  I lagged back.

  While Martin was ahead I dug in my pocket and quickly popped a sublingual pill under my tongue.

  He stopped, turned. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing. I had a stone in my shoe.”

  THEN

  ELLIE

  The wooden sign for the Pug and Whistler swung on metal chains in the slight breeze. The building had a historic facade and a fenced beer-and-wine garden out back. Fairy lights were strung from the gums, galahs fed on the verge, and flies buzzed over a scattering of patrons seated at tables along the front veranda.

  I stopped beneath the sign. Carved into the wood was a figure of boy with a surfboard under his arm. The boy’s face was turned to the sky, and he was whistling. Behind him followed a fat and merry-looking little pug. The Pug and Whistler.

  “Rabz—the owner, Bodie Rabinovitch—had a pug,” Martin said, following my gaze.

  The sign—the place—looked friendly. My spirits calmed. Just a little. Or the Ativan was working. Nevertheless I shot a quick glance over my shoulder to ensure the Corolla was nowhere among the deepening twilight shadows.

  Martin drew back a PVC strip curtain that hung across the door. We entered and the thick plastic strips clacked into place behind us. They reminded me of a butcher’s shop. But the curtain seemed to keep the heat out because the interior was cool. Dimly lit. Busy. Lots of chatter. An old-fashioned jukebox in the corner played upbeat music. Surfboards and fishing memorabilia decorated the walls.

  “Hey! Marty!” A woman came out from behind the bar, wiping her hands on a cloth. “How are ya?”

  “Rabz.” Martin gave her a hug. “This is my Ellie. El, this is Rabz. A local fixture. Ex–pro surfer.” Martin grinned.

  Rabz’s gaze met mine. Her eyes were a rich brown. She’d attempted to restrain her mass of long brown hair in a loose braid that hung over her shoulder, but tendrils escaped and curled prettily around her face. Her deeply tanned olive skin was offset by an orange artisan-looking shift that hung loosely over her athletic body. Leather sandals. An armful of silver bangles and beads. A nose stud winked as she moved.

  And what I felt was an odd stab of jealousy.

  Rabz extended her hand. “Heya, El. Good to finally meet you.”

  Her grip was strong, like she was trying to make a point she didn’t have to. She smelled like essential oils—patchouli with a hit of jasmine and lime. Something dark and uncomfortable began to unfurl along the edges of my mind.

  “Cute place you have,” I said. It came out patronizing. Perhaps I’d intended it to be.

  She eyed me, then smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her brown eyes. “Thanks. We just renovated, so I’m glad you like it.”

  We seated ourselves on barstools while Rabz began to pour beer from a tap, angling the glass carefully to get the head just so. She set the beer in front of Martin. “On the house—your usual.” A smile at me. “What can I get for you, Ellie?”

  I opened my mouth, but Martin said quickly, “Pinot gris.”

  The darkness at the edges of my consciousness snaked closer. I’d been about to ask for something nonalcoholic, but suddenly I felt I could use an alcoholic boost.

  Rabz set a chilled glass of white wine in front of me. She leaned across the bar toward Martin. I could see her tanned cleavage. She lowered her voice and said to Martin, “Those are the greenies I was telling you about. In the back booth by the jukebox. They’ve been coming in almost every day for the past two weeks, drinking themselves into a froth over your Agnes project. I’d steer clear of them right now if I were you guys.”

  I turned to see four guys in the back booth. One of them—a wiry, dark-haired man with deep-set eyes, met my gaze. My pulse jolted with the intensity that radiated across the room. The slogan painted in bloodred on the side of the shed shimmered into my mind.

  DEATH TO THE CRESSWELL-SMITHS!

  KILL MARTIN.

  Quickly I turned back to face the bar. I took a deep gulp of my wine as Martin’s vitriol echoed in my brain.

  “If I get my hands on them, I . . . I’ll cut those fuckers to shreds, cut ’em with a knife. Stick my gaff in them. Make them bleed and feed ’em to the muddies.”

  I sipped again, relieved at how quickly the wine was softening my edges. My mind began to drift. I listened to the music, the voices growing louder in the pub.

  I heard Martin order pies and chips with peas.

  Time slowed, turned elastic. I took another deep swallow of my drink. A fly buzzed near my glass and I swatted it clumsily away. I felt Martin watching me. I felt the men in the booth watching me. I noticed Rabz glancing at me every now and then.

  I finished my wine and motioned to a young server to bring me another. I started on my second glass as a tall and slender blonde approached the bar. She wore a camisole and denim shorts. Her white-blonde hair was cut in a short wind-ruffled style. Sexy hair, I thought, taking another sip. She had a lovely neckline. Lovely shoulders. Lovely big blue eyes. Elegance and athleticism.

  “Hello, Marty,” she said. “This must be Ellie?”r />
  Marty.

  He cleared his throat. “Willow, hi. Yeah, this is Ellie. Willow is a”—he turned to the woman—“what do you call it again?”

  Willow laughed. “Wellness coach.” She proffered her hand. “Willow Larsen.” Her Australian accent was flat and thick, but not unattractive.

  “And there I thought you were a fortune-teller,” Rabz said as she set a glass of wine in front of Willow. “Or a diet coach. Or some kind of medium.”

  Willow laughed again and took the wine. She had a nice laugh. “A major building block of wellness is nutrition, so yeah, you could say I dabble in diet along with the occult.” She glanced at me. “I read tarot cards. Tea leaves. Auras, too.” She brought her glass to her mouth, sipped. “Coffee grinds at a push.”

  Dana’s words crawled through my mind.

  “Your aura is weird after you’ve been with him. Dark. Wrong. Something is badly off . . .”

  I considered asking Willow what she felt about our auras right now, but I knew it was the wine tempting me. I refrained.

  “I have an online business,” Willow explained to me. “But I also offer consults at my home. My background is psychotherapy—I’m a trained therapist at the root of it all.” She glanced at Rabz. “So yeah, Rabz, no worries. Most people have trouble describing what I do. I just refer to myself as a holistic healer.” She took another sip of her wine while standing at the bar. “Nice to finally meet you, Ellie,” she said. “We wondered if Martin had made you up.” She threw him a grin but he didn’t return a smile. She hesitated, holding his gaze. “Well . . . my friend Gregg is waiting.” She gestured toward a booth where a good-looking man with sun-bleached brown hair sat. “Join us later if you like?”

  “Thanks,” I said. “We might take you up on that.”

  “And if you ever want a reading, El, I’m the second house up on the Jarra headlands. The one with all the glass. Stop by. Even if it’s just for a cup of tea. Or glass of wine. Or if you just want the lowdown on this place, because believe me, there’s plenty of it.” Her gaze ticked to Martin.

  “Thanks. I will.” And I meant it.

  “She seems nice,” I said to Martin as she left us.

  But Martin was focused on Rabz, who was setting two plates in front of us, each with a steaming meat pie, hot chips, and tiny peas. She poured Martin another beer and I realized I’d finished my wine. How many had I had? Two? Three? Rabz nodded to my glass and I said yes.

  Martin tucked into his food, clearly ravenous. I picked at mine. He seemed to be avoiding eye contact with me.

  “Martin?”

  His gaze met mine. I felt undercurrents. Was he judging me for my drinking? Or was it the greenies upsetting him?

  “You haven’t said a word to me since she brought the food—” I reached for my fresh glass but my motor skills were off and I bumped it with the back of my hand. It toppled over. Shock crashed through me as wine splashed over the counter. I lurched up and lunged for the glass to stop it from rolling off and onto the floor, knocking over my barstool in the process. It toppled back onto the floor with a violent smash.

  People stopped talking, turned.

  “Jesus, Ellie!” Martin grabbed a napkin and tried to sop up the spill. Rabz hurried over with a dishcloth, calling for the young server to help.

  “I . . . I’m so sorry, I—” I was shaken. Sounds around me turned into a droning noise. Everything seemed unsteady.

  Martin’s eyes turned thunderous. He righted the stool angrily while I braced against the bar for balance. The whole pub was swaying.

  “Please don’t worry,” Rabz said quickly, lightly, trying to defuse things. “Happens all the time.” She motioned to the server to bring me another drink.

  “Yeah,” snapped Martin. “I’m sure it happens all the time—people get drunk all the time. And she doesn’t need another.”

  “I’d like another,” I replied, determined to save face, to prove it was an accident. “I was just clumsy.” But even I could hear the slurring in my words. I should go to the bathroom. I should splash water on my face. I let go of the bar, but my knees gave out under me. I grabbed for the counter again, knocking my plate off. It smashed onto the floor, breaking into shards and sending tiny green peas rolling everywhere.

  Martin swore. I felt his hands on me, holding me up. His grip too tight. I heard noise, music, talking, laughing—all the sounds running into each other. I felt far away.

  “Better take . . . home . . . ,” Martin was saying something to someone. “. . . too much to drink again.”

  “I . . . only . . . had one hand half . . .” My words came out in a mumble.

  Martin supported me with the help of Rabz. I heard Rabz say, “Have you got your ute here?”

  Martin said, “We walked.”

  “Take my car. It’s outside. You can bring it back later.”

  We stumbled outside. It was dark. Fairy lights swinging. Hot wind. Distant booming surf. I heard bats fighting in the tree overhead. A car lock beep. He helped me in.

  “Were you drinking before we got here, Ellie? Or is it the pills?”

  I shook my head. The world whirled. He buckled me in. The engine started. I rested my head back and closed my eyes. The whole world was tilting, spinning, round and round, faster, faster. I was going to throw up.

  “I said, did you take more pills?”

  “Wh . . . what?”

  “Ativan—more benzos?”

  But I couldn’t make out words anymore. I felt the car turn. I was sinking into the dark . . . beautiful, dark, silky soft oblivion.

  THE MURDER TRIAL

  Pretrial forensic evaluation session.

  We’re back on the subject of my mother’s death. It’s my second appointment with the forensic psychologist in his Sydney office. I walked out on the last one when I felt he was trying to trick me. After sleeping on it I decided to return and follow through with the next appointment.

  I need this trial to go the right way. My way. And after all, mental trickery goes both ways, right?

  “You were nine, Ellie,” he says. “You were in the house alone with your mother. At what point did you realize she was in trouble that day?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Let’s try and go back, shall we? What do you remember doing right before you realized your mom was in trouble?”

  “I . . . I think I was drawing in my room.”

  “You’ve always liked drawing?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you recall what you were drawing?”

  An image flares through my mind. Vines strangling a little girl who was walking through a forest searching for her dad, who was a big strong woodcutter with magical powers.

  “No.”

  He studies me. I hold his gaze.

  “Did you mother call out to you?”

  “I . . . No. I just heard a thump and something break. I went to see what happened. I found her lying on the floor in her bedroom.”

  “Where exactly on the floor?”

  “Between the bed and the wall. Near the nightstand.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I tried to wake her. I shook her. There was foam coming out of her mouth. Nothing would wake her.”

  “Was it the first time you’d found her like this, Ellie?”

  I feel heat in my head. “No. I’d found her like that twice before already.”

  “What did you do those times?”

  “I phoned my dad.”

  “And this time—did you call him?”

  “I . . . I can’t remember. I just remember him arriving. Later. After the ambulances and a fire truck. Lots of people with big boots in the house and lots of equipment.”

  Slowly he says, “So did you call the emergency responders—dial triple zero?”

  “It’s 911 in Canada.”

  “Did you call 911, then?”

  I swallow. My face goes hotter. I can’t remember. I really can’t. “I think so. Yes. How else would they have gott
en there?”

  He writes something in his notebook and nods. He opens a folder and reads some kind of report. I wonder if the lawyers somehow got hold of the old coroner’s report. It would all be in there, what happened and when with my mother. The only reason he’s asking me must be to see how I react.

  He looks up. “How did your father treat you afterward—when you learned she’d died?”

  I rub my knee. I feel nine again. I feel so small, and sad, and scared. I feel tears coalesce in my eyes. I feel all these things, but the memory of the events is not clear. Just the feelings.

  “Did he make you feel safe, Ellie? Did he make you feel loved?”

  “No,” I say quietly, and I think of the little girl in my drawing, looking for her woodcutter father in the forest. Her father, who was big and strong, should have come with his ax to cut away the evil vines trying to strangle her and drag her down into the loamy earth where she would rot alone.

  “He sent me away. To my mother’s sister’s house at first, because he was busy working and traveling a lot. And then I went to a boarding school.”

  “Did he love your mother?”

  “He was always worried about her, fussing over her, taking her to doctors, or arguing with her about drinking or the pills.”

  “How did that make you feel?”

  I hold his gaze. “How do you think?”

  “Maybe you thought she stole all the light.”

  My stomach tightens. “Maybe,” I say with a shrug.

  “Did it change after she was gone?”

  “No. Like I said, he basically dumped me—left me entirely. Just paid for my care and sort of forgot I was there.”

  “How did that make you feel?”

  “Christ,” I say as I get to my feet. I walk to the window. I look out. The playground is empty today. It’s raining. Just a man walking a very tiny dog. “How do you think it made me feel? I hated him. I loved him.”

  “Do you still hate him?”

  I waver. “Yes. And no. Conflicting feels.”

  “He’s a domineering man, has a very commanding presence, no?”

  I nod.

  “Was your first husband like him at all?”