by Chris Hammer
‘How did Jasper know I was arriving yesterday?’
‘I told him,’ says Mandy. ‘Last week. I said that you were finishing the book and would be up here on Sunday or yesterday.’
‘If you only arrived in Port Silver yesterday, how did the victim know you?’ asks Winifred.
‘He was my friend,’ says Martin. ‘We grew up together. We were best mates at high school.’
‘You grew up here?’ asks Winifred, half a question, half a statement.
‘Yes.’
Winifred turns to Mandy. ‘You knew this?’
Mandy’s face is troubled. ‘Yes. Jasper told me. He was looking forward to having you back. He said how good it would be to have such a kick-arse journo living in the town.’
Winifred and Nick exchange a glance, but they can all feel it, the link with Martin. Winifred turns to him. ‘Just to be clear: when Mandy told you she was moving to Port Silver, you didn’t tell her you grew up here?’
Martin spreads his hands, a conciliatory gesture, accepting fault. ‘I thought I did, yes.’
Mandy frowns, shakes her head. ‘Martin said he knew Port Silver well. That’s all I remember.’
The two lawyers again make eye contact, but neither pursues the matter.
Instead, Nick addresses Mandy. ‘How did you come to know Jasper? And were you expecting him?’
‘He was the real estate agent; he rented me the townhouse,’ says Mandy. ‘And I was expecting him sooner or later. He was meant to be dropping the keys to my house.’
‘What house?’ asks Nick.
‘I’ve inherited a house. It’s why I decided to move up here.’ She’s frowning again, frowning at Martin. He wonders if this is something she’s told him already, when he wasn’t listening, when he was obsessed with writing his book. She gives him a scornful look and continues, talking to Nick. ‘I’m the beneficiary of a big estate, that’s how come Winifred is my lawyer. I inherited a lot of property down in the Riverina around a town called Riversend, but also a house up here. It belonged to my paternal grandmother, Siobhan Snouch. It was her family home.’
‘Your grandmother?’ asks Martin.
‘Yes. My father Harley’s mother. She died years ago and her estate passed to her husband Eric, and now to me. Winifred and Harrold Drake have been clearing up titles and paying back taxes and old rates and getting a survey done. I was hoping to take possession this week. So maybe Jasper was coming with the keys.’
‘I don’t think so,’ says Martin. ‘I spoke to Jasper Speight’s mother, Denise. I’m sure she would have mentioned that.’
‘Yes,’ says Winifred. ‘The survey is almost finalised, but not yet.’
There’s silence as four minds struggle to process their understanding of the crime. Martin wonders about Mandy’s inheritance. It’s why she chose Port Silver; she owns a house here. He remembers all too well her telling him she was moving here; maybe he was too shocked to hear the reason why. He shakes his head. It’s not good: for a couple anticipating a future together, they’re not communicating very well. Or, rather, he’s not listening very well. Then again, while he’d been pumping out his book in Surry Hills, he hadn’t been communicating with anyone, apart from his editor.
‘Where’s the house?’ he asks.
‘Across the river, on the point, looking out to sea.’
‘Siobhan Hartigan?’ asks Nick.
‘Shit a brick,’ says Martin.
She’s waiting for him, sitting in the shade of a Norfolk Island pine at a picnic table above the beach, staring at the waves, thoughts elsewhere. He’s bought fish and chips for himself and sushi for her. For a moment, transfixed by the glittering waves, she’s unaware of his presence. The sun is out, the day is hot, the sea gleaming. He pauses, watches her. She’s like a vision made real, sun playing off her newly auburn hair. She turns, alerted somehow, smiling as he approaches; he feels the earth returning to its correct axis, the horror of the murder beginning to fade under the clarity of sunlight. She smiles as he lays out the food, gasping with joy at the sushi, telling him she’s still relishing fresh fish after the years in the bush.
As they eat she points at schoolkids in a surfing class, her laughter like sea spray, as they try to stand, then tumble into the gentle sea. He points out an overweight man, shirt off, stomach and breasts like jelly, as he shuffles along the waterline with all the movements of jogging but the velocity of a slow walk. Martin says that’s him in a few years’ time; Mandy says it might be him now. Her eyes glint, taking pleasure in the small talk, the inconsequential exchanges of regular life. He compliments her on her hair colour; she says she didn’t want people to recognise her as the woman in the papers. He says it looks wonderful; she says she did it herself. He tells her she is a wealthy woman, she can afford a hairdresser. She invites him to fuck off.
They sit in silence for a moment after that, comfortable in each other’s company, while they eat. The fish and chips are hot, greasy and salty, tasting of heaven. Fish and chips; his mother’s Friday night treat. Despite everything, he’d never grown tired of them. As a young boy, he’d imagined a life of wealth, luxury and leisure, far from the struggles of the Settlement: he’d live on Nobb Hill, drive a flash car and eat fish and chips morning, noon and night. He smiles to himself: maybe he’ll get there yet.
A steady stream of beachgoers passes by—backpackers, tourists and retirees—their feet squeaking in the powder-fine sand, the raked neatness of the morning lost, the natural patterns restored, peaks and troughs, echoing the rippled surface of the sea. The people settle here and there, obeying an unspoken pattern, not too close to their neighbours. The young are bare-chested and loose-limbed, bikini-clad and sunscreen-sheened; the old wear broad hats and broader sunglasses, skin wrinkling like fruit drying in the sun. There are few kids, surfing lesson aside; it’s a school day. The breeze is light and the early afternoon sun hot, and Martin is grateful for the shade of the tree. He wonders about the strangers aligned before them like dot points in a presentation. They look so relaxed, caught in the perfection of the day. Are their lives really that simple: food, sleep, the beach, filled with the minor decisions of everyday life? Or is that merely the smooth surface and, like Mandy and himself, they’re troubled by deeper currents? Surely no one has a trouble-free life; everyone experiences their own dramas, of love and hope, of desperation and despair. Yet it’s difficult to believe any of these sunbathers have endured anything to rival the travails he and Mandy have already experienced in a year only just entering its third month.
Down by the water’s edge, two mothers play with their preschoolers, building a sandcastle, their chattering voices carried on the breeze between the crunch of the waves.
‘Where’s Liam’s child care?’ Martin asks.
‘Out next to the high school on the road to Longton.’
‘That’s handy.’
‘Yes. It’s only been open for a few weeks. Perfect timing. The manager is a single mum. Lexie. Lives out the back. She’s taken a real shine to Liam and is happy to babysit out of hours, on weekends, whatever. She’s a godsend.’
‘Isn’t he young for child care?’
Mandy smiles. ‘No, not really. He’s ten months. It’s good for him. Normality. Some start when they’re a few weeks old.’ Then she bites her lip, concern in her eyes. ‘He’ll be okay, won’t he, Martin?’
He wipes grease from his hand. ‘Of course. Why wouldn’t he be?’
Her concern remains, the light leaving her face. ‘I can’t shake it, Jasper lying on the floor like that. Choking on his own blood, spitting and bubbling and fighting for breath. For life. I shut my eyes and I’m right there, the sounds and the smells. I open my eyes and I look out at this, this paradise.’ She gestures at the beach. ‘I see this and I can imagine a future here, but when I close my eyes, that’s all I see, the past. It’s always there, waiting for us.’ She breathes, a long exhalation.
‘Mandy, it only happened yesterday. Give yourself time. The police will f
ind the killer and it will fade into the past. The future will still be here, waiting for us. Waiting for us to make it. To make it with Liam.’
She nods, as if accepting his wisdom, but her brow remains creased and her eyes sad. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that you grew up here?’
Martin sighs. ‘I don’t know. I should have. I guess I didn’t want to spoil it; you were so excited.’
‘Spoil it? How?’
He looks away, unable to match her gaze for a moment. He swallows. The truth; now is the time to start. He returns his gaze to her face, looks her in the eye. ‘It wasn’t a good childhood. My parents died. My sisters died. I was the only one left.’ He tries to say it matter-of-factly, as if such things are commonplace, but he knows he fails, knows his voice betrays him, knows she detects the suppressed emotion beneath his words.
‘Oh, Martin.’ She reaches out, squeezes his hand, but he can no longer hold her gaze. Instead he’s looking, unseeing, out at the sea, fighting to control a groundswell of emotion. Finally, he turns towards her. ‘Port Silver was okay,’ he reassures her. ‘It really was. Before it all turned to shit. Being a kid here, it was good. I’d forgotten that.’
She doesn’t respond immediately; when she does, her voice is low and sympathetic. ‘Is that why you didn’t come straight away? Why you stayed in Sydney to write your book?’
He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I just thought it would be simpler to get it out of the way. Finish with Riversend, put it behind us, then start anew up here.’
She says nothing as she studies his face. He’s unsure what she’s thinking. He changes the subject, tilting the conversation back towards the future. ‘So it’s the house, Hartigan’s—that’s why you chose Port Silver?’
She smiles. ‘Yeah, the house. I needed to get away from Riversend, away from the drought, away from the past. Make a clean break. I always wanted to live by the sea. I thought about Sydney—Bondi or Manly or Balmoral—but not with Liam, not the city. I considered somewhere like Bermagui or Tassie. And then Winifred told me I’d inherited the house up here. It sounded perfect. It is perfect, will be perfect. I’ve already had a look at the outside. You should see it: an old weatherboard up on the cliff with a view that goes forever. And I’ve enrolled in uni, distance education at Southern Cross. There are campuses at Lismore and Coffs Harbour; I just need to show up for a few weeks a year, the rest I can do from here. Fix up the house, raise Liam, study literature. Eat fish.’ And she smiles again, a little of the previous lightness returning, dimples and mischief. ‘And you. If you’re up for it.’
‘Of course I am,’ he says, holding her hand. The demons of his youth are not her demons; his past is not their present.
But now her smile fades, swept away like a squall crossing a beach. ‘You think it can be? Perfect? Jasper Speight dying in my hallway, like some sort of omen. A warning.’ She fixes her eyes on Martin, her gaze intense. ‘Do you believe in fate?’
Martin grins. ‘We’ve had this conversation before.’
‘Really?’
‘When we first met. In the bookstore in Riversend.’
‘You have a good memory.’
‘It was unforgettable. You were unforgettable.’
She beams at that, dimples prominent. ‘Smooth,’ she says, before growing serious again. ‘You’ve changed, Martin Scarsden.’
‘I hope so.’
‘What was your answer?’
‘To what?’
‘Fate?’
‘No. We make our own.’
‘What about karma?’
Martin looks down at the sand, at the sunbakers, the separate trajectories of their lives coalescing together at this precise moment, on this day, on this beach. ‘Don’t know. Maybe.’ He knows that just a few months ago he would have ridiculed the idea. Now he doesn’t elaborate. Maybe he has changed.
‘If someone wanted to kill Jasper, why do it at my place?’ asks Mandy.
‘Mandy, it’s not an omen. The house, the uni. The coast, Liam. You’re right: Port Silver is perfect.’
‘The past is always with us, the ghost in the room.’
Now it’s his turn to frown, unsettled by her tone. ‘You think?’
‘I do.’ Thoughts ripple across her face. ‘We are barricades, bulkheads sheltering the next generation, keeping the past from hurting them. Protecting them, protecting Liam. It’s all back there, the crimes of his father and his grandfather. It’s the same with you, whatever happened to you here. We have to live with that, move with it, move past it. But Liam, he is born afresh, untainted. Innocent. That’s why I want to be here, that’s what I want from Port Silver. I want him to grow up here like any other child, free from what went before.’ She turns to him. ‘And I want you here as well. It’s our chance, Martin.’
‘And fate?’
‘Fuck fate.’ Again, there is a smile, but one built on defiance, not amusement.
‘Fuck fate,’ he echoes, holding her hand.
The sea looks so smooth, so benign. He’s seen it on other days, boiling and deadly, foam from one end of the beach to the other, boats locked down in the harbour for days on end in the aftermath of northern cyclones and east coast lows. And now, to the south, on the horizon past the lighthouse and the surfers, Martin can see a front of clouds. A southerly change is on its way, carrying memories with it, isobars of regret. He’s said enough; he’ll tell her more, but not yet. They need to recover from the shock of Jasper Speight’s murder first.
‘Tell me about the house then,’ she says, as if reading his thoughts. ‘You and Nick Poulos seemed to know all about it.’
Martin grimaces. He knows he needs to tell her of his past here. The house is a good enough place to start.
‘When we were kids, no one lived there. Siobhan Hartigan must have moved to Riversend before we were even born, so it was sitting up there on the headland, deserted. Slowly going to ruin. Maybe they used it as a holiday house, I don’t know, but we always thought it was empty. Among us kids, it had a legendary status. We thought it was haunted.’
‘Haunted? That’s something.’ She smiles. ‘Did you ever go there?’
‘Only the once.’
chapter six
They come to the house by way of the river, the three boys: Martin and Jasper and Scotty. By accident. The three of them, aged twelve, on the cusp of puberty, the tectonic shift to adolescence approaching, the girls and the drinking and the delinquency, the febrile hormones, the fractured families and fragile identities. But for now they are still boys, floating, innocent of the future, adrift in Scotty’s canoe. Carefree and careless on the Argyle, down past the caravan park and under the bridge. After days of storm, the sun is hot and the breeze mild, even as the tide turns, beginning to assist the river’s flow to the sea instead of impeding it. They laugh and point as first the port and then the town drift by. Jasper stands, drops his pants, moons Port Silver. The canoe rocks dangerously as the boys squeal, laughing at his audacity.
Then, as the town begins to recede, it’s time to turn back. But the flow of the swollen river, reinforced by the accelerating tide and the pent-up pressure of rain-fed tributaries, is against them. They paddle hard against the current, but the retreating riverbanks tell the story: they are going backwards, out towards the mouth of the river, the treacherous sandbar and the sea.
‘No good,’ says Scotty, already breathing heavily at the head of the canoe. ‘We can’t fight it.’
‘It’s like a rip,’ says Jasper, seated in the middle. ‘We need to go sideways, get to shore. Or go with it, out the mouth. Head across outside, come back into the beach.’
‘Fuck that—let’s get to shore,’ says Martin, the mood suddenly urgent.
There is no question which shore to try for: the river is pushing them away from the town and the populated southern shore, towards the less hospitable northern bank; this far down the river the flatlands near the caravan park are gone and the bank is steep and covered in a tangle of vegetatio
n. They turn the canoe sideways to the flow, feeling it push them seawards, feeling its pressure, understanding it could so easily flip them. ‘Row!’ shouts Scotty, and they row, following his lead, pushing hard with silent intent. The bow is pointing at the bank, but the current is taking them further and further sideways, so that the trees shift past, from right to left, as if the canoe is mounted on a conveyor belt. Martin fears they won’t make it; the tide is accelerating as the river narrows one last time, the bank passing faster and faster. On the right bank, the town is almost spent, the breakwater beginning. He’s about to call it quits, to call on his mates to turn the bow towards the sea before they hit the surf side on and capsize. And now they can see it, hear it: the sandbar, foaming white and roaring its appetite. Their eyes widen with fear and, for just a moment, they stop rowing, shirtfronted by fate. But just as they think that all hope is gone, they sweep past a small headland, a large rock, and the river widens again. The current that has held them so tightly relaxes its grip. Desperately, they recommence their rowing, pushing hard across the current, Martin and Jasper matching Scotty’s rhythm. There is no talking, no shouting, just concentrated effort and aching muscles.
The waves breaking over the bar are close, just fifty metres away, clearly visible. They can hear the power in the surf’s roar, feel the sea mist on their faces. The swell is high, provoked by days of storm, the rain-fed river smashing into it. The bar, dangerous on the best of days, is a foaming, roaring beast. This is their last chance. Either they make the shore or they enter the maelstrom. How has this happened so quickly? They’re well past the rock now, and even as the current eases the shoreline recedes, revealing a small beach, still inside the bar but facing towards the sea. A secret beach, its promise of sanctuary tantalisingly close even as it too begins to recede. And then. And then, the current is easing its grip, releasing them as they pass completely out of the river’s flow. ‘Keep going!’ yells Jasper above the roar of the approaching surf, but his tone has lost its desperation. For the water by the beach is calm, beyond the river’s authority and protected by the bar from the angry sea, a small patch of tranquillity. The canoe is once again under their control. Their momentum alone carries them the last few metres. The bow scrapes onto the sand; Martin feels relief, tension washing out of him, joy flowing in.