The Day the Lies Began

by Kylie Kaden

  ‘Likes I told them coppers, it looked like rubbish – all tangled with seaweed, food wrappers, y’know. That bloke wouldn’t have even noticed if it weren’t for Scout sniffing around.’

  His oversized khaki shirt drowned his sun-scorched limbs as he chatted away. She could have sworn she’d seen Catfish’s boat in a wake of white water on the dark surface of the lake that night on the shore with Blake. But the bloke seemed to be acting normally towards her, under the circumstances. Abbi’s nerves calmed. She hoped she was just overthinking this, a guilty conscience conjuring up complications that didn’t exist.

  His Great Dane shook her short, steel-blue coat, spraying Abbi with drips of seawater.

  ‘Scout! C’mere, girl.’ She was a gentle giant but when the dog rose on her hind legs she was as tall as Abbi, and she stood listening to her master like she was the interviewer.

  Scout. Abbi would have laughed if she wasn’t so uptight. To her, Catfish was their own Boo Radley – the subject of unfounded gossip. Other than a few harsh words to Eadie for getting into his mother’s petunia patch, he always seemed harmless. Was he still? Or did he know more than he was letting on? He frowned, gave a two-fingered salute and scuttled up the rocks, his sand-matted dog bouncing behind, the bag of cans he carried rattling as he walked.

  A scuffle caught her attention, and she noticed a huddle of network journalists shoving microphones towards the ringleader. She looked for Blake in the crowd as she paced over, fighting against the wind. The spokesperson – Senior Detective Sergeant Miller, it seemed from his badge – had the smoothness of Obama: he spoke with caution, but demanded respect. ‘I can confirm that human remains, inside a men’s Nike jogger, were found washed up from origins unknown this morning.’

  A skinny redhead with stiletto heels puncturing the sand asked, ‘Have you any idea how long the deceased has been in the water?’

  The detective pointed his chin with authority. ‘That is unknown at this time, but early enquiries suggest the size nine men’s sneaker was manufactured in May 2018, which indicates the victim is most likely from Australia, male, of average height and became deceased after that date. The remains themselves will be tested further to provide a more accurate time of death.’

  Abbi pounced the second the detective finished. ‘Will DNA identification be possible?’

  ‘It’s unlikely, but if any marrow is present, we’ll cross match all evidence against our missing person’s database. We’ll keep you informed as the case progresses.’

  Abbi tried to focus on what angle her article would take. What spin she needed. Miller left and the cameras dropped, the crowd disbanded, but she scurried after him. ‘Is suicide being considered?’

  There was a nod. Almost imperceptible, but very present, before he gave the standard response – that nothing would be ruled out at this early stage.

  She could work with that. Most of the locals only read the Chronicle, even then it was only while wrapping the day’s catch. She could angle this any way she chose. Suicide was on the rise in remote Queensland towns.

  And something uncoiled inside.

  * * *

  They had only spoken of it two times: Blake was strict on that front. The first was the night after, the second on a drunken downward spiral of despair a few days later, and the third was going to be this day of the shoe.

  Abbi hadn’t heard from her brother since his call, and the absence of news was forcing her to invent her own truth. Her thoughts were a nest of intertwined cords with no end in sight; she had to know how bad things had become.

  Once Eadie finally settled in bed, Abbi waited till she heard the peculiar huffing noise that was Will’s snore – rattling loudly as he flaked out in front of Q&A – before creeping down the front stairs, out onto the street and three blocks over to Blake’s.

  The path was gravelly and Abbi wished she’d worn shoes. She wished she’d called first. She wished …

  As she snuck down the dimly lit path, Abbi unwittingly disturbed a bag of recycling cans resting against Blake’s house, or Blake and Hannah’s house; Abbi was still not used to that fact. Hannah was a peppy morning person, though, so Abbi had figured she’d have gone to bed by now. Blake would be alone, wanting to forget.

  The study light came on after the commotion, and as her brother’s shadow approached the side door she instantly regretted coming. That feeling only heightened when she tripped on an uneven paver to avoid the bag of cans, stubbing her big toe.

  ‘Fricking Hannah and her fricking recycling,’ Abbi muttered, biting her lip as pain burned from her split toe.

  Through the glass, Blake glanced at the cans strewn up the walkway. He was weary eyed, in boxers and a Matchbox 20 t-shirt. When he recognised her skulking outside his door, he groaned in frustration. ‘What the hell?’ he whispered, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her into the study.

  ‘Sorry,’ she breathed out as she hobbled in.

  ‘Hannah’s upstairs.’ He sat at his desk, and shut down the computer. There was a jumpiness to him and she was clearly the cause. Again. ‘How’d you know I’d be down here, anyway?’

  ‘Figured you wouldn’t be asleep.’ Her woes were wrecking balls, flattening everything in their path.

  ‘It could have been Hannah. What would you have said then?’

  ‘Hi Hannah?’ Abbi answered, but as the words formed in her mouth it felt wrong to make light of it. There was nothing funny about any of this. Today’s developments amplified their little predicament significantly, and her partner in crime would be taking the brunt of it. It seemed his role now included Dismembered-Foot Management. ‘Are you okay?’

  Blake’s eyes said what his lips couldn’t chance. They were flighty, fearful, full of questions.

  She trusted Blake with her life. Hannah was another story.

  Blake turned his gaze towards the hall like he’d know if Hannah was approaching by instinct alone. But it was just a vacant hall, silent as before.

  Abbi sat on the edge of his futon like it was short on springs. She’d sat on it a thousand times, but never as the creature she’d become. The lying, scheming kind. The kind who put her marriage in jeopardy. All the problems curling through her mind imploded and panic shook her composure. ‘The rain. The king tide. The lake broke its banks. We should’ve known,’ she cried out. ‘And all that rain we had a few weeks back – the creeks were already flooded.’

  Blake’s face tensed, his lip thinned and as he stood the chair rolled away from under him. ‘Look, I’ve had a shithouse day and we’re not talking about this.’ He paced over to Abbi on the futon, one eye over his shoulder as if he was keeping tabs on his shadow.

  She held up her hands, heavy remorse surging through her as strong as the night this all started. Time had not helped erase her guilt. ‘I know, I’m sorry. But I mean …’ Her fingers covered her mouth and she realised they were shaking ‘Where’s the rest of him?’

  He inhaled sharply and he pressed his hand over Abbi’s mouth. ‘Don’t say another word. You’ve already broken the rules by coming here. Situation fucking normal, remember?’

  Routine was the only thing holding Abbi together. But today was not routine.

  Her survival strategy – deluding herself into a state of flat-out denial – was also hard to maintain when the evidence was telecast on a loop. She was failing, splendidly.

  ‘I can’t sleep. I keep seeing his face. And interviewing Catfish – I mean, does he realise who owns that foot? It made me feel sick.’ She sniffed back a sob and hung her head low. Scarlet droplets stained the terracotta tiles from her stubbed toe. They both looked down at her mangled nail. Blake sighed, stepped back to his computer desk for a few tissues and gave Abbi one to blot the wound while he used another to clean the drops off the floor. The first smear came up clean but the second smudged and spread across the tile. He scrubbed hard at the stain, back and forth. It wouldn’t budge. Blake crouched on the floor and covered his eyes with his hands.

  She could see it
, smell it as well as he could, even though the body was long gone: stiff curls of bloodied hair around the man’s temple, the smell of bait and milled sawdust.

  Blake stood and kicked the bin, the metal clanging.

  Abbi hobbled over to him, hesitated, then touched his arm, which he pushed away. ‘Don’t.’ He got up and turned his back to her.

  Abbi felt warm tears meander down her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, Blay.’

  ‘Yeah? For which bit?’

  ‘All the bits. Every last bit.’ Abbi inhaled, like it would give her superhero strength, but it didn’t. ‘I shouldn’t have got you into this.’

  ‘You think?’ He turned and looked at her, and she could see the pain on his face, feel it shudder through her own conscience. He was a good cop. A responsible citizen. ‘Well, you did.’

  Abbi’s cheeks hollowed. ‘I’m not sure I can do this. Keep it from Will, I mean. I’m already in the doghouse. I think I have to tell him now. Things are different now. People will start asking questions.’

  Everything stilled.

  Blake’s eyes grew large. ‘No. Way.’

  Abbi tapped her fingers to her lips. She couldn’t keep the words in, even now. ‘He’s my husband. Aren’t there rules about that? Not testifying against a spouse? We’ve always been straight with each other. It’s what we do. But keeping something this big from him the past month is killing me. It’s killing us.’ Her breath shuddered but she kept it together. ‘He’s going to know. The town’s overrun with gossip. The media will hound us.’

  Blake’s anger subsided, like he’d passed that baton back to her. ‘You’re part of the media. You can manage that. And the foot … It’s been floating in saltwater for weeks, with significant decomp, marine predation, no blood left for DNA, so you could spin it any way you like – asylum seeker, tsunami victim. I managed to get them thinking about that yachty who went missing. You know, from Yeppoon – found the table set, but no one on board. You could go and interview the family, see if they recognise the shoe. Raise suspicion. Buy us some time.’

  ‘I’m not leading that family to believe their loved one has been found when we both know he hasn’t. It’s unethical.’

  ‘Unethical? Listen to yourself!’ He laughed, briefly, before becoming thoughtful again. Warmth returned to his eyes. ‘You can do this.’

  Abbi shook her head. He was always saying things like that, as if it magically made them true. ‘I’m not built for this. Will is already suspicious.’

  ‘You’ve been doing it for weeks.’

  Abbi remembered to breathe. ‘Will knows if I so much as steal the last biscuit. He reads minds. He’s like a Jedi.’ Her face brightened. ‘Maybe he’ll be okay with it. With why we did it.’

  ‘Okay with it?’ Blake’s eyes narrowed.

  Memories sat in the charged silence.

  Blake glanced at Abbi’s smashed toe. ‘Wait here, klutz. I’ll get something for it.’ Blake was convinced he was dying of something most of the time. She wasn’t surprised he had a first-aid kit stashed nearby.

  Abbi bundled her unruly hair into a thick wad, looked down at her foot to distract herself, calm the calamity rising in her chest. It felt like she existed in an entirely different world to the one she used to inhabit. Everything had changed, since that night. She had thought it – he – was done with. But apparently everything resurfaced in this town.

  Wearing a Nike shoe with midsole air pockets.

  Blake returned quicker than expected, holding a bandaid.

  Abbi perched back on the futon. Blake lifted her foot and turned up his nose. ‘Your feet are filthy.’

  ‘I go barefoot a lot.’

  ‘Do you shower?’ He surveyed the damage and stuck a plaster over the cut. A warped picture of Elsa, wrapped around her toe.

  Abbi tried to forget the shadow lurking. ‘Never picked you for a Frozen fan.’

  ‘Got ’em for Eadie. Figured they’d reduce the hissy fits. She’s forever hooking herself when I take her fishing.’

  Abbi smiled. She didn’t have the heart to tell him Eadie was into the Latina princess Elena of Avalor now. Frozen was so last year. ‘She misses Uncle Blakey.’

  He’d been around less, since Hannah. Since Abbi’s fuck-up management.

  She placed her foot to the floor and he parked himself beside her on the futon. They sat like kids playing corners in the backseat, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. Soundless words exchanged between them via a sixth sense. And as she turned to meet his gaze, a stillness draped over her mind that she had longed for. There was still love there. She clung to the moment of calm, a fleeting sense that their fractured relationship could still come back from this. He was still on board with this farce.

  The rush and rumble of a toilet flushed upstairs. Footsteps clodded down the hall. They were too loud, too close to consider escape.

  ‘Hannah,’ Abbi said, standing as the word sprang forth. Blake stood immediately, widening the distance between them.

  Hannah’s body flinched when she saw them together, and for a moment, seeing Hannah with no make-up or designer jeans, Abbi saw the person she used to know, the fast-witted, freckle-faced girl she’d raced to the top of the headland. But then the weight of the world slumped onto Hannah’s shoulders, she folded her arms and turned on her attitude. She was still better groomed, her hair smoother than Abbi’s on a good day. ‘I thought you were watching the Cowboys game, not sneaking in girls.’

  Blake stepped towards Hannah. ‘Abbi hardly counts.’ He folded Hannah into him, one hand curving around her Peter Alexander PJs, and planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘She was just leaving anyway – Klutz-Features here stubbed her toe walking in the dark and for some reason mistook my place for a twenty-four-hour medical clinic.’ He glanced at Abbi and she made a goofy face, taking the insult for the team. Their on-the-spot explanations were improving, at least.

  Hannah surveyed the bandaged toe, the bloody tissues, and seemed to buy the excuse, but then turned back to Abbi. ‘Who walks the streets with no shoes?’

  Blake raised his eyebrows. ‘Er, most people in this town. This isn’t New York.’

  Abbi rapidly launched into small talk just to slice a hunk out of the awkwardness taking up the room.

  Before long, Hannah fake-yawned, looked over at Blake and snuck her finger across his chin. ‘Anyway, you were supposed to have an early one tonight after getting home so late. Did you hear about the foot, Abs? Awful. It’s all anyone was talking about today at school.’

  Abbi grunted, unable to make structured sound.

  Blake unhooked himself from Hannah and threw Abbi a pair of crusty thongs from the pile by the garage door. ‘Here, Doofus. I want them back.’

  Abbi slipped on the worn-down thongs.

  ‘And lock the door,’ Blake ordered. ‘Don’t know what sort of crims are out there, wandering the streets.’ Abbi and Blake shared a look only they understood before she waved silently and Hannah went upstairs.

  Abbi slid the screen door closed. Blake flicked the latch, and turned for the hall. She knew Blake would look back, and when he did, she mouthed, I’m sorry. When she got no reaction, Abbi followed it up with a weak smile. She knew he saw. She knew he knew how derailed she was. How hollow she felt to have placed him in this compromising position.

  Abbi had considered herself a good sister growing up, always covering up Blake’s truancies and mishaps, not dobbing on him to her mum, but none of that mattered now. Instead, she received a steely look, and he pressed a finger to his lip. A warning.

  This game they had been playing had gone on for a month now. She wasn’t sure how long it could last. The one thing she was sure of was that her welcome in Blake’s life was wearing as thin as the flip-flops on her feet.

  Chapter 13

  33 DAYS AFTER THE MOON FESTIVAL

  Three seagulls squawked as they perched on the railings, hoping for crumbs as Abbi and Eadie scoffed blueberry muffins on the shady half of the deck. Now that the helicopters had gone and the me
dia from yesterday cleared, the incessant grumble of the rolling surf was the only sound. Stand-up paddleboard riders marked the rim of the south-eastern swell like crows on a clothes line, unperturbed by the news that human remains were found on the shore just the day before.

  The hardest parts of this game were the unguarded moments. When Will turned off the light and put his heavy arm around her, when he’d notice she was quiet and steal a second glance to take stock of her mood. The moments he expected her to be entirely herself, after all the layers of politeness, obligation and fear were stripped away, like he was used to. But that was hard to give now.

  Abbi had accepted the act itself – she had been forced to make a split-second decision – but she simply didn’t have time to consider its long tail of consequences. Did that make her a bad person?

  You are what you think. That’s what all the psycho-babble said. So, Abbi figured, all she had to do was transport her mind back to before, and it would be like she was there. She closed her eyes and imagined the last good memory of before: Eadie cartwheeling on springy grass with hundreds and thousands on her lips, Will turning sausages on the rusty barbie with his shirt buttons out of sync, she and Blake making mojitos and mess in the kitchen; it was all a blur of soft edges and swirls, but it represented the last day of normalcy.

  ‘Mummy?’

  It was strange. Since the night of the festival, Abbi felt like her life was on extra time. Like she’d survived a near miss, left a bus before it burst into flames. Her coping mechanism these past few weeks – denial that any evidence would come to light – had fooled her into a false sense of safety, but after yesterday’s development the acid began to rise in her throat once more.

  Evidence. Witness statements. Investigation.

  ‘Mummy?’

  She could control the local paper, but the story had gone viral. There was little she could do but keep breathing, resist the urge to crawl into a hole, break every task into smaller parts she could handle, savour every moment of normality. And persevere.