The River Baptists

by Belinda Castles

  ‘I need to go home,’ she said quietly when he reached her, dripping in the dark in his black underwear and nothing else. ‘I don’t feel too good.’

  He stood and considered her for a moment. For a weird second it seemed to Rose that he was trying to work out whether she was telling the truth. ‘OK,’ he said eventually. ‘Tide’s going out, anyway. Get stuck on the mud if we don’t go soon.’

  The shallows were difficult to navigate in the dark— Kane had not brought his torch—and they ran into the muddy bottom a couple of times, the motor spluttering and cutting out as the prop clogged up. Rose kept her eyes steadfastly on the long, dark peninsula that separated the inlet from the main passage of the river, willing herself not to be sick, though the gorge rose with every lurch of the little dinghy and its inadequate motor. Kane seemed unsure of his new purchase, but she was no expert on boats herself and in no state to offer advice besides.

  A good fifteen minutes had passed by the time they’d cleared the mud, rounded the tip of the peninsula and passed back under the railway bridge to draw level with the village. She dared herself to glance in its direction. The flames had died now, embers flying off the car into the night. Men’s laughter drifted over from the marina. It’s just a car on fire, she told herself. It has nothing to do with you. She fixed her gaze on the opposite shore, and soon the island was between their boat and the village as they laboured home, not speaking above the efforts of the motor pushing over the little caps of the river.

  At last they pulled alongside her jetty. ‘You get inside,’ he said. ‘I’ll sort out the boat.’ She nodded and climbed the ladder quickly, feeling every extra rung exposed by the tide, and half ran, half stumbled along the jetty and up the steps to her door. She was grateful to find she hadn’t locked it. Inside, she ran across the living room to the bathroom and just made the toilet before the vomit rushed out of her mouth and nose.

  When she’d finished she sat on the cool tiles of the tiny bathroom and rested her head against the space on the wall between the cistern and the bottom of the sink. She closed her eyes and in the blackness let herself feel what she had struggled against on the boat ride across the river. She had nothing left with which to fight it. It was him, her father, still, after all these months. His presence filled the space around her: the smell of his guitar, of rolling tobacco, the wool of his jumper, scratchy against her face as she leaned against his warm chest. It must have been an old memory, if it was real, because he was like a giant and she was little, wrapped up in his arms. She couldn’t open her eyes. She kept them shut and tried to hold on to it for as long as she could, knowing it was fading, that every time she did this there was less of him there, that she was using up her memories too fast with the strength of her longing.

  Tom watched the fire quietly, laughing when required, slugging his beer with the rest. He found himself out of sorts, despite the presence of a cold beer in his hand that he hadn’t paid for. Steve was right. Little shits should be taught some proper respect for fire. He could think of a few good ways to instil it, too. He was wet, as well; should have taken Danny up on his offer to fetch dry clothes. More than these things, though, now that he was out of the water he was bothered by a dream from this afternoon, after his lunchtime beer. He’d been trying to recapture it right up to the moment when he sank his barge less than a minute out from his wharf. Now he remembered. Molly— the dream was about Molly.

  It was all that activity over at Mancini’s, after it being quiet for so long. When this stuff got stirred up it was like shit in the river—never see the end of it once the tide started washing it around. First that little wanker in a suit turning up after all this time, deciding to use the place as a weekender. Didn’t he know what his old man had done? And he’d just stroll back in and make himself at home? Then, when you got yourself used to that, he installed the young chick who, it was getting more and more bleeding obvious, was knocked up. It had to be his, didn’t it? Another generation of Mancinis sent to blight his twilight years. And now he’d let the boatshed to that wastrel. The boy was in and out at all hours, disturbing his sleep. And when the baby came there’d be the bloody infernal racket as well. He wouldn’t be able to look at it without wanting to drown it. And she wondered why she got short shrift when she said hello.

  He hadn’t dreamed of Molly in a long time. Wasn’t sure he ever had. He didn’t know what happened in the dream, but she was in it. That moon face. Pretty curly brown hair like her mother’s. Eyes that never knew what day it was. Figure like her mother’s too, when she was a girl. Not that you’re supposed to notice. How you’d miss it he didn’t know. Old bastard Mancini hadn’t, that was for sure. No clothes in the dream, like when they found her. He felt as though he needed a wash, a swim in the ocean. Mancinis. Always brought a stink with them. Never got what they deserved so you could feel clean again. He remembered the days before them. He’d been salty-skinned, ready for anything.

  Now there was Alf with a face on. The old fella had been keeping a low profile lately. But here he was, wanting something, looking at Tom in that quiet way while he was trying to have a sociable drink with the boys. ‘Need a word, Tom,’ he leaned down and muttered in his ear.

  ‘Not now, Alf. Having a friendly drink. Can’t you see? How’s the chandlery going, anyway? Daft tourists keeping you busy?’

  Alf nodded at the empty outdoor café along the boardwalk towards his shop.

  ‘You fucken listening, Alf?’

  But he was off, and Tom followed. When it came down to it, you did what Alf said. Even Tom didn’t know the truth of the stories that had always surrounded him. Alf owned half the businesses this side of the river: the chandlery, the general store, the marina itself and all the moorings. Anything that opened up in competition lasted a few months then closed without warning, its owners moving quietly away from the river, never to be seen again. Maybe just the threat was enough with Alf. Maybe he started the rumours himself about what he’d done to people who interfered with his business interests. They loved those stories on the river. Occasionally a body, or guns washed up. Alf’s name was always in the air, even though it usually turned out to be some Sydney underworld thing, nothing to do with anyone round here. Anyway, even Tom knew not to push Alf too hard. Supposed to be my shout, he was thinking. Maybe the others would forget and keep going without him. Then he could slip back in for the next round.

  The café was a sea of empty plastic tables. Closed on weeknights, dark at this end of the marina. Full of bloody journos and architects on the weekend. He stayed home on Saturdays—when it came down to it, grog tasted the same wherever you drank it, and the boys knew where to find him. Alf sat down at one of the tables, huge back hunched over. Tom sat down next to him. It was almost dark now and Alf was quiet; his voice, when it came, was low, steady, all business.

  ‘Heard a rumour today, Tom. That Mancini who’s been back at the old place. They’re saying it’s his kid the girl’s carrying.’

  ‘Alf. Shut up. I know all right. What do you expect me to do about it?’

  ‘I should have done him.’ He fixed Tom with a stare. ‘We both know what he did. I left it to you. Not another bloke’s business to sort out your problems for you.’

  ‘Christ, Alf, what are you saying? My wife—you know that. Edie wouldn’t have that.’

  ‘Now there’s going to be another one of those little arseholes.’ In the light coming from the shop Tom could just make out his massive expanse of face. It slackened for a moment. Alf sighed. ‘This river. It’s going to the dogs.’

  This was as much fun as scraping the barnacles off his barge. Tom stood and tried to walk away. Alf grabbed his arm. His face was stony now. No glimpse of weakness. Nothing to say they’d been mates since school. ‘You could have done it,’ he whispered loudly, too loudly for Tom’s liking. He tried to shake him off but Alf had always been a bloody big bloke. There’d be a bruise on his arm the next morning. He was starting to feel pretty ticked off himself now. Didn’t kno
w how much longer he could mind his Ps and Qs, Alf or no Alf. ‘You knew what to do, Shep. If you’d sorted Mancini out, she never would have—’

  ‘Get fucked, Alf,’ Tom cut across him. ‘Don’t ever talk to me about this again.’ Alf let go then, and Tom brushed past the men drinking on the wharf, on his way to the pub to get stuck into the hard stuff.

  Chapter 4

  A few days after he’d seen the burning car, his shift finished, Danny let himself into the chandlery, opened up the till, and from under the cash tray removed a yellow envelope with his name on it. He counted the notes; it hadn’t been a bad fortnight, not too many days sitting around on his arse in the café, and there was a bit more than usual. He peeled off some of the notes, shoved them in his pocket, then crossed his own name out and wrote another name and address on the envelope before resealing it. He took a couple of stamps from the drawer beneath the till, left a few coins on the counter and let himself out.

  The marina was quiet, but he glanced around quickly anyway before posting the envelope in the red box outside the shop, then made his way to Rob’s fibreglass dinghy down on the jetties. It was just the little boat Rob used to get between the shore and his yacht mooring, nothing flash. It would be fine for tonight, even though he needed to cross the river at a fairly wide point. Less work than the dory, that was for sure. It was a calm night and he’d take it slow.

  He began to plough his way softly through the dark, a cold beer in one hand, the tiller in the other. Rolled up in his canvas satchel on the opposite bench was a free local newspaper. There was an ad in it he wanted to show Rob, for a piece of land upriver. Would he laugh? Danny didn’t want to seem all talk. That was the old man. I’m gonna do this. I’m gonna do that. He wanted to be the one who did the things he said he would do. Sooner or later you had to confide in someone, though; you’d go crazy carrying it around on your own the whole time. Rob was a good bloke. He’d known him longer than anyone, the only one from the past.

  It took him a good half-hour before the lights on the opposite shore turned into the windows of houses and you could see the jetties with no moon. The motor failed a couple of times and he had to restart her, patiently, trying not to flood the engine, failing once and having to wait five minutes before trying again. Rob’s thirty-footer was moored twenty metres out from the Mancini place. He could see a lantern burning on deck, a little spark hovering a couple of metres above the river. He puttered over and grabbed hold of the other dinghy. ‘You there, Rob?’

  ‘Come up, Dan. Beer’s cold.’

  He found Rob sitting on a fold-up chair, smoking a cigar, feet on a little stool. He pushed a chair towards Danny and raised a beer bottle. ‘Fridge is full, mate. Help yourself.’

  Danny went below to the galley and emerged with a couple of bottles. He set them on the deck and reached inside his bag for the paper. ‘Want to see something?’

  ‘Sure. What is it?’

  Danny passed him the paper and pointed to the picture. Rob held it under the lantern hanging from the overhang of the roof of the galley. The light illuminated his softening chin, his spreading belly straining a little against his T-shirt. Rob was a good fifteen years older than Danny; his older two were teenagers. ‘Looks nice. You got plans to move?’

  Danny dipped his chin. ‘Maybe. It’s not too far. Got a bit saved now. Build something maybe. Take a while. Just a shed first, probably.’

  ‘Sounds good. Give you a hand when you’re ready.’

  ‘Cheers, Rob. Appreciate it.’ Danny lifted his beer and they both drank.

  ‘Been meaning to talk to you anyway, Dan. Glad I caught you.’

  ‘I’m always on the mobile if you want to go fishing.’ He watched Mancini’s place. There was a lamp burning in the front room. He wondered about the girl. Just the quiet around her was a mystery. The girls round here were friendly and talkative; even the married ones flirted as easily as breathing. He’d seen her, though, talking to that Kane over at the ferry wharf, laughing, alive to something in a way that seemed unusual for her. Starved for company, probably.

  ‘Bloody mobiles. Always dropping out. Can’t have a proper conversation on those things.’

  ‘Well, I’m here now, mate. What is it?’

  ‘Heard a whisper your dad’s got a run to the servo.’

  ‘Which servo?’

  ‘Ours, mate. The marina.’

  ‘What, petrol?’

  ‘Not since that accident. Frozen stuff. Fish fingers and that. Works for Fast Freeze now. They’ve put him on a whole new route. Semi-retirement. Keeping him local-ish. He’s finished with the big runs.’

  Danny sat in silence in the lamp glow from the table. Not for the first time, he wondered why it was him that had to go over the edge of the boat rather than the old bloke. He’d never shake this feeling, this prickling at the back of his neck every time something to do with his father came up.

  He studied the label of his beer, picking at the edges. As soon as he’d arrived on the river, he’d found out since, Rob had recognised him. Young bloke out of nowhere, it seemed, unless you knew a bit of his story. He went around haunted then, got himself some work helping out with deliveries at the pub, then on the ferry, eventually on the water taxi. Rob knew Danny from when he and his older brother Terry helped their old man out on his rig, doing some of the runs for him as they got older. Rob had driven a truck all his working life. Thirty years. He was involved with the local union, knew everyone in the area, if not by face then by reputation. He knew Dan’s old man by both: a lairy, big old bloke that drank and had the odd prang, fewer than you’d imagine.

  Rob had wandered over one night in the pub, early on, seven years ago now. Danny was drinking alone, miserable, unsure of his surroundings, of who he could trust. The local girls were checking him out, but he didn’t notice. Different man back then. Drawn in, sitting in the shadows, trying to make himself invisible. Wary of the world. Rob took the stool next to him and ordered a drink, nodded at Danny. He leaned a little closer. ‘I know your face, young Raine,’ Rob said. Danny looked up from his beer, bristling.

  ‘It’s Reynolds.’

  ‘OK, have it your way. It’s all right, fella. If you want the quiet life, you’ll get no trouble from me.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Danny said, his voice barely audible over the pokies and the six o’clock news. He searched Rob’s face, grappling with faint recognition, fearing what the connection would be when he came to it. Was this one of those moments, when the air drew tight and snapped back, and then violence came? Whose violence would it be? He’d never hit anyone in his life.

  ‘I’m in the union, with your dad. He thinks you’re dead. But you’ve probably seen that in the papers, haven’t you?’ Danny said nothing. ‘You can trust me, boy. We used to hear stories about your old man, what he did to you and your mum. Always wondered what’d happen when you and your brother got big. Just live your life and forget about him. You ever want news of her, I’ll get it for you. The kiddie, too, if you want.’

  Water stood in Danny’s eyes. He abandoned his beer suddenly and shot out the back door. After that, he hadn’t set foot out front of the pub for months; crept down to the marina after helping with the kegs, rowed quietly home.

  A couple of months later, after Alf had given him the water taxi gig, he was passing under the freeway bridge when he came upon a woman and a young girl stranded in a broken-down tinny, bobbing about on a choppy night near the sandstone piers. The girl was crying. The woman shouted at her. ‘It’s going to be OK—just give me a hand!’ But they were being pushed closer and closer to the massive pier with no control over the little boat, and the girl was immobilised in panic. The woman was doing her best with an oar, but the chop was strong, concentrated, in the little space between the pylons. When they noticed him pulling alongside, their smiles beamed at him in the dark. It took a bit of messing around to get them in the water taxi. The girl was still shaky and kept backing off from climbing over at the last minute. After a couple of
goes, swearing under his breath, he saw that they were only a couple of metres from the sandstone pillar and he grabbed her waist and pulled her in.

  He discovered as he chatted to them on the way back to the village that this was Rob’s wife, Maggie, and his daughter Bronwyn. Since then, things like this happened to him every other week. He was owed more favours than he could keep track of—got a free beer or two most nights he turned up at the pub. But this was the first time, and it was Rob’s family, sent to him like a gift. Since then he’d had some relief from worrying about his old man knowing where he was. It felt better, somehow, to have one eye on his dad, rather than never knowing where he was or what he was doing. Otherwise he could be standing right behind you and you’d never know.

  ‘He’s not gonna know you’re here,’ Rob said. ‘He’ll only be down once a month. Be pretty unlucky to bump into him.’

  Danny nodded. ‘Bit close for comfort.’

  ‘Don’t go taking off, Dan. You’ve made a life for yourself on the river.’

  ‘Not my life, though, is it; it’s the one I ended up with. Not that I’m complaining.’

  ‘What would the girls round here do without you? They’d go feral.’ Rob laughed, then said quietly, ‘That bit of land. That’d be far enough.’

  Far enough, Danny thought. How far is that? He always knew he should have gone further, but he loved this part of the world. The dark hills, the slabs of sandstone erupting from the gleaming water at every turn. Did he have to give up everything? He downed the rest of the beer. ‘Thanks for the tip, Rob.’ He stood to leave.

  ‘Mate, have another beer. He’s not here now, is he?’

  ‘Early shift tomorrow, Rob. Another time.’

  Ten metres out from the yacht Danny twisted the throttle sharply and the bow lifted out of the water. Almost immediately, he heard a shout from in front of him in the dark. He hit his kill switch and swerved to the right, narrowly missing a man in a little hull as small as his own. ‘Nearly killed me!’ the man shouted.