The Dry

by Harper,Jane

  Falk stared at him.

  “Both things?”

  Whitlam shot a glance at Gretchen, who shifted uncomfortably.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you’d have seen them by now.”

  “What?”

  Whitlam took a square of paper from his back pocket and handed it to him. Falk unfolded it. A hot wind rustled the dead leaves around their feet.

  “Who’s seen this?”

  Neither of them answered. Falk looked up.

  “Well?”

  “Everyone. They’re all around town.”

  The Fleece was busy, but Falk could hear McMurdo’s Celtic twang rising over the cacophony. He stopped in the doorway behind Whitlam.

  “I’m not entering into a debate with you, my friend,” McMurdo was saying from behind the bar. “Look around. This is a pub. This is not a democracy.”

  He was clutching a handful of screwed-up fliers in his large fist. They were the same as the one burning a hole in Falk’s pocket, and he had to fight the urge to take it out and look at it again. It was a crude reproduction, probably photocopied five hundred times at the town’s tiny library.

  Across the top in bold capitals were the words: RIP ELLIE DEACON, AGE 16. Below was a photo of Falk’s father aged in his early forties. Next to it was a hastily taken snap of Falk himself that appeared to have been shot as he left the pub. He was caught in a sideways glance, his face frozen in a momentary grimace. Underneath the photos in smaller type were the words: These men were questioned about the drowning of Ellie Deacon. More information needed. Protect our town! Keep Kiewarra safe!

  Earlier in the parking lot, Gretchen had given him a hug.

  “Bunch of absolute dickheads,” she’d whispered in his ear. “But watch yourself, anyway.” She’d scooped up a protesting Lachie and left. Whitlam had ferried Falk toward the pub, waving away his protests.

  “They’re like sharks in here, mate,” Whitlam had said. “They’ll pounce at the first sign of blood. Your best move is to sit in there with me and have a cold beer. As is our God-given right as men born under the Southern Cross.”

  Both now stopped in the entrance. A large purple-faced man, who Falk remembered had once turned his back on Erik Falk in the street, was arguing across the bar with McMurdo. The man stabbed a finger emphatically at the fliers and said something Falk didn’t catch, and the barman shook his head.

  “I don’t know what to suggest, my friend,” McMurdo said. “You want to protest about something, you get yourself a pen and paper and write to your MP. But the place to do it is not in here.” He moved to shove the fliers in the bin, and as he did he caught Falk’s eye across the room. He gave a tiny shake of his head.

  “Let’s go,” Falk said to Whitlam and backed away from the entrance. “Thanks anyway, but it’s not a good idea.”

  “Think you might be right. Unfortunately. Christ, it’s like Deliverance round here sometimes,” Whitlam said. “What are you going to do?”

  “Hole up in my room, I suppose. Go through some papers. Hope it blows over.”

  “Stuff that. Come and have a drink at mine.”

  “No. Thanks, though. It’s better if I lie low.”

  “Nope, that doesn’t sound better at all. Come on. But we’ll take my car, eh?” Whitlam fished out his keys with a grin. “It would do my wife good to meet you. It might help reassure her a bit.” His smile dimmed a fraction, then brightened. “And anyway, I’ve got something to show you.”

  Whitlam texted his wife from the car, and they drove in silence through the town.

  “You’re not worried about me being seen at your house?” Falk said eventually. He thought back to the incident in the park. “The school mums won’t be impressed.”

  “Stuff ’em,” Whitlam said, his eyes on the road. “Maybe it’ll teach them something. ‘Judge not lest ye be judged by a gang of small-minded nut jobs’ or however it goes. So. Who do you think’s been sending out your fan mail?”

  “Mal Deacon probably. Or his nephew Grant.”

  Whitlam frowned. “I think Grant’s more likely. Apparently Deacon isn’t all there these days. Mentally, I mean. I don’t really know; I don’t get involved with those two. Don’t need the hassle.”

  “You might be right.” Falk stared gloomily out of the window. He thought of his car, the silver words scratched into the paintwork. “But neither of them are above getting their hands dirty.”

  Whitlam looked at him, weighing up Falk’s response. Then he shrugged. He’d turned off the main street and was navigating the warren that was the closest thing Kiewarra had to a suburban estate. The houses seemed tight and manicured after the sprawling farmhouses, and some of the lawns were actually green. No easier way to advertise you used fake turf, Falk thought. Whitlam pulled up on a paved courtyard outside a smart family home.

  “Nice place,” Falk said. Whitlam made a face.

  “Suburbia in the countryside. Worst of both worlds. Half the neighboring places are empty, which is a pain. Security risk, you know? We get a lot of kids messing around. But everyone in farming lives on their land, and there’s not much in town to attract anyone else.” He shrugged. “Still, it’s only rented. So we’ll see.”

  He led Falk through into a cool, shining kitchen, where his wife was making coffee with a rich, deep aroma on a complicated machine. Sandra Whitlam was a slender, pale-skinned woman with large green eyes that gave the impression that she was permanently startled. Whitlam introduced them, and she shook Falk’s hand with a vague air of suspicion but pointed him toward a comfortable kitchen chair.

  “Beer, mate?” Whitlam called to him as he opened the fridge.

  Sandra, who was in the process of placing three china cups on the counter, paused.

  “Didn’t you just come from the pub?” Her voice was light, but she didn’t turn to look at her husband as she spoke.

  “Yeah, well, we didn’t quite get inside in the end,” Whitlam said with a wink at Falk. Sandra pressed her lips into a thin line.

  “Coffee’s fine, thanks, Sandra,” Falk said. “Smells good.”

  She gave him a tight smile, and Whitlam shrugged and closed the fridge. She poured them each a cup and padded around the kitchen in silence, placing various cheese-and-cracker combinations on a plate. Falk sipped his coffee and glanced down at a framed family photo propped up near his elbow. It showed the couple with a small sandy-haired girl.

  “Your daughter?” he said to fill the quiet.

  “Danielle.” Whitlam picked up the frame. “She’ll be around here somewhere.” He glanced at his wife, who had paused mid-action at the sink when she’d heard the little girl’s name.

  “She’s watching TV in the back room,” Sandra said.

  “She OK?”

  Sandra just shrugged, and Whitlam turned back to Falk.

  “Danielle’s quite confused, to be honest,” he said. “I told you she was friends with Billy Hadler. But she doesn’t really understand what’s happened.”

  “Thank goodness,” Sandra said, folding the tea towel in her hands into a tight, angry square. “I hope she never has to understand something as horrific as that. Every time I think about it, it makes me feel sick. What that bastard did to his own wife and child. Hell’s too good for him.”

  She reached over to the counter and cut a thin slice of cheese, forcing the knife hard through the block until it struck the board below with a sharp knock.

  Whitlam cleared his throat lightly. “Aaron used to live here in town. He was friends with Luke Hadler when they were younger.”

  “Well. Maybe he was different back then.” Sandra was unabashed. She raised her eyebrows at Falk. “So you grew up here in Kiewarra? That must have felt like a long few years.”

  “It had its moments. You’re not enjoying it, then?”

  Sandra gave a tight laugh. “It hasn’t exactly been the fresh start we were expecting,” she said, her voice clipped. “For Danielle. Or any of us.”

  “No. Well, I’m
not the best person to defend this place to you,” Falk said. “But you know what happened to the Hadlers was a once-in-a-lifetime incident. If that.”

  “That may be so,” Sandra said, “but it’s the attitude around here that I can’t understand. I hear some people almost sympathizing with Luke Hadler. Saying how hard he must have been finding things, and I want to shake them. I mean, how stupid can you be? Never mind what Luke was going through. Who cares? Can you imagine what Billy’s and Karen’s last moments were like? But there’s this—I don’t know—parochial pity for him. And”—she pointed a manicured finger at Falk—“I don’t care if he took his own life as well. Killing your wife and child is the ultimate domestic abuse. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  For a long moment the only sound in the kitchen was the coffeemaker steaming away on the pristine counter.

  “It’s OK, love. You’re not the only person who feels that way,” Whitlam said. He reached across the kitchen counter and put his hand over his wife’s. She was blinking rapidly, her mascara smudging around the edges. She left her hand there for a moment before slipping it away to reach for a tissue.

  Whitlam turned to Falk. “It’s been terrible for all of us. Losing a student. Danielle losing her little buddy. Sandra feels for Karen, obviously.”

  Sandra made a small noise in her throat.

  “You said Billy was supposed to come over to play the afternoon he died,” Falk said, remembering the conversation at the school.

  “Yes.” Sandra blew her nose and busied herself pouring more coffee while she almost visibly pulled herself together. “We used to have him over quite a lot. And vice versa, Danielle would go to their place as well. They got on like a house on fire; it was quite sweet really. She really misses him. She can’t understand that he’s not coming back.”

  “So this was a regular arrangement?” Falk asked.

  “Not regular, but certainly not unusual,” Sandra said. “I hadn’t organized anything with Karen for that week, but then Danielle found this junior badminton set we got her for her last birthday. She and Billy were terrible at it, but they used to love messing about with it. She hadn’t used it for a while but suddenly got completely fixated on it—you know how children are—and wanted Billy to come over as soon as possible to play with it.”

  “So when did you speak to Karen to set something up?” Falk asked.

  “I think it was the day before, wasn’t it?” Sandra looked at her husband, who shrugged. “Well, I think it was. Because, remember, Danielle was pestering you to put the badminton net up in the garden? Anyway, I called Karen that night and asked if Billy wanted to come home with Danielle the next day. She said, ‘Yes, OK,’ and that was it.”

  “How did she sound?”

  Sandra frowned as though taking a test. “Fine, I thought,” she said. “It’s difficult to remember. Maybe a bit … distracted. It was only a short conversation, though. And it was late-ish, so we didn’t chat. I offered, she accepted, and that was that.”

  “Until?”

  “Until I got a call from her the next day. Just after lunchtime.”

  “Sandra Whitlam speaking.”

  “Sandra, hi. It’s Karen here.”

  “Oh, hi. How are you doing?”

  There was a brief pause followed by a tiny noise, perhaps a laugh, down the line.

  “Yes, good question. Look, Sandra, I’m so sorry to do this to you, but Billy can’t come over this afternoon after all.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame,” Sandra said, suppressing a groan. Now she or Scott, or possibly both, would be on call for at least a couple of rounds of junior badminton that evening. She mentally drew up a list of potential last-minute stand-ins. “Is everything OK?” she asked, a fraction late.

  “Yes. It’s just—” The line went quiet, and for a moment Sandra thought they’d been cut off. “He’s been a bit under the weather lately. I think it’s better if he comes straight home today. I’m sorry. I hope Danielle won’t be too disappointed.”

  Sandra felt a stab of guilt.

  “No, honestly, don’t be silly. It can’t be helped if he’s not 100 percent. Probably wise, especially with what Danielle’s got in mind. We can rearrange.”

  Another silence. Sandra glanced at the clock on the wall. Below, her to-do list fluttered against the corkboard.

  “Yes,” Karen said finally. “Yes. Maybe.”

  Sandra had farewell pleasantries on the tip of her tongue when she heard Karen sigh down the line. She hesitated. Show her a mother of school-age children who didn’t sigh on a daily basis, and she’d show you a woman with a nanny. Still, curiosity got the better of her.

  “Karen, is everything all right?”

  There was a silence.

  “Yes.” A long pause. “Is everything all right with you?”

  Sandra Whitlam rolled her eyes and glanced again at the clock. If she left for town right now she could be back in time to put the washing out and ring around to find a replacement for Billy before the school run.

  “Fine, Karen. Thanks for letting me know about Billy. I hope he’s on the mend soon. Speak later.”

  “I feel guilty every single day about that phone call,” Sandra said, refilling the coffee cups yet again like a nervous tic. “The way I rushed her off the phone like that. Perhaps she needed someone to talk to, and I just…” She teared up before she could finish her sentence.

  “You weren’t to blame, love. How could you know what was going to happen?” Whitlam stood and put his arms around his wife. Sandra stood a little stiffly and glanced in embarrassment at Falk as she wiped her eyes with a tissue.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that she was such a nice person. She was one of the people who made it bearable to be here. Everyone loved her. All the school mums. Probably some of the school dads.” She started to give a little laugh that she cut dead in her throat. “Oh God, no, I didn’t mean—Karen would never … I just meant she was popular.”

  Falk nodded. “It’s OK. I understand. She was obviously well liked.”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  There was a silence. Falk drained his coffee and stood up. “It’s probably time I made a move, anyway—leave you in peace.”

  Whitlam swallowed the last mouthful of his own coffee. “Hang on, mate, I’ll take you back in a minute, but I’ve got something to show you first. You’ll like it. Come and see.”

  Falk said good-bye to a still-teary Sandra and followed Whitlam through to a cozy home office. He could hear the muffled sound of a cartoon playing from somewhere down the hall. The office had a far more masculine feel than what he’d seen of the rest of the house, with furniture that was battered but well loved. Along the walls ran floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with sports books.

  “You’ve got half a library in here,” Falk said, scanning the contents of the shelves, which ranged from cricket to harness racing, biographies to almanacs. “You’re obviously a fan.”

  Whitlam bowed his head in mock disgrace. “My postgrad was in modern history, but to be honest, all my research focused on sports history. Racing, boxing, origins of match fixing, et cetera. So all the fun stuff. But I like to think I still know my way around your standard dusty and faded document.”

  Falk smiled. “I have to admit, I hadn’t pegged you as the dusty document type,” he said.

  “A common mistake, but I can mine those archives with the best of them. Speaking of which…” He pulled a large envelope out of the desk drawer and handed it to Falk. “I thought you might find this interesting.”

  Falk opened it and pulled out a photocopy of a black-and-white team photo. Young men from Kiewarra’s 1948 first XI cricket side had donned their best whites and lined up for the camera. Their tiny faces were washed out and fuzzy, but sure enough, there, seated middle of the first row, Falk saw a familiar face. His grandfather. Falk felt a lift in his chest as he saw the name typed neatly in the team list below: Captain: Falk, J.

  “This is fantastic. Where did you fi
nd it?”

  “Library. Thanks to my tightly honed archiving skills.” Whitlam grinned. “I’ve been doing a bit of research on Kiewarra’s sporting history. For my own interest really, and I came across that. Thought you’d like it.”

  “It’s great. Thank you.”

  “Keep it. It’s only a copy. I can show you where to find the original one day if you want. There’ll probably be other photos from around the same time. He might be in more of them.”

  “Thanks, Scott, really. What a great find.”

  Whitlam leaned against the desk. He pulled one of the crumpled anti-Falk fliers out of his back pocket and screwed it up. He chucked it at the bin. It went straight in.

  “I’m sorry about Sandra,” Whitlam said. “She wasn’t finding it easy to adjust to life here, anyway. The idea of a relaxing country escape hasn’t quite worked out like either of us thought. And this terrible business with the Hadlers has made everything worse. We thought we were moving here to get away from anything like that. Feels like a frying pan–fire scenario.”

  “What happened to the Hadlers is so rare, though,” Falk said.

  “I know, but—” Whitlam glanced at the door. The hallway outside was empty. He lowered his voice. “She’s hypersensitive to any kind of violence. Keep it to yourself, but I was mugged back in Melbourne, and it ended—well, badly.”

  He looked again at the door but, having started, seemed to need to unburden himself. “I’d been at a mate’s fortieth in Footscray and took a shortcut through an alley to the station, you know, like everyone does. But this time these four blokes were there. Still kids really, but they had knives. They blocked the way, and me and this other man—I didn’t know him, just some other poor bastard taking a shortcut—we were stuck. They did the whole routine, demanded wallets and phones, but somewhere it went wrong.

  “They got spooked, lashed out. I was beaten up, kicked, fractured ribs, the works. But the other guy took a knife to the guts, bled out all over the asphalt.” Whitlam swallowed. “I had to leave him there to go and find help because the bastards had stolen my phone. By the time I got back the ambulance had arrived, but it was too late. Paramedics said he was already dead.”