Silver

by Chris Hammer

  But this evening it’s worse, far worse. His father is drunk—of course he’s drunk—but he’s not asleep. Far from it. Martin hears it as soon as he enters: the high-pitched tittering, the porcine grunting, the slap, slap, slap of flesh on flesh. His father, at it with Hester from down the road. She’s bent over the dining-room table, his father chugging away behind her like a steam engine low on coal. Slap, slap, slap. Martin stares, overwhelmed by the ugliness, wondering if luck will gift his father a coronary, pondering if this is the origin of the word ‘slapper’. Slap, slap, slap. Hester looks up at him, grinning lasciviously, left tit flopping about, cheeks blurred by rouge. His father, too intent on shoving it in and out to notice him at first, then turning, gasping for air with none to spare to evict him. Martin turns, leaves. The rain is cold but it’s clean. Cold and clean.

  In Mandy’s car outside the childcare centre, as the sun works to expunge the effects of the cloudburst, Martin shivers and he squirms, dozing in the heat. But the dam is broken, it’s coming back to him. The past, like a canefield serpent, awaiting its time, awaiting its chance.

  It’s later the same night, Hester gone, his father comatose in bed, the lounge room to himself: the giant rear-projection television, last of the lottery spoils, beaming in pictures from Berlin. Martin sits and watches, entranced. The wall is coming down, the hated wall. Men are taking to its graffitied concrete with sledgehammers, with cold chisels, with their bare hands, and all around them people are singing and yelling, crying and laughing. Young men with bad haircuts sit straddling the wall, passing a bottle between them, offering peace signs and grinning at the camera. A wide shot: a surge of people pushing through a gap in the concrete, sweeping through this breach in history, shoving their way into Martin’s consciousness. And amid the ebbing, swirling, yelling crowd stands a man, calm and unruffled, addressing the camera with clinical precision, his diction perfect, his blue shirt wrinkle-free, standing above the tumult and speaking with the gravitas of prophecy, putting it all in perspective, an island of logic in a heaving sea of emotion. ‘This is, without doubt, history. History in the making,’ states the foreign correspondent, and Martin knows it to be true.

  Denise Speight’s real estate agency is shut. A handwritten note taped inside the glass door tells the story: Closed until further notice. Death in the family. Funeral arrangements—Longton Observer. She’s accepted Martin’s advice after all and taken time off.

  ‘Now what?’ says Mandy, rocking Liam on her hip.

  ‘Hotel?’ replies Martin.

  ‘Really? Can’t we do better than that? I want somewhere private, with a kitchen and a bathroom and a laundry. I can’t look after a baby in a hotel room. And I don’t want to be out in public, with people pointing and talking.’

  ‘The townhouse?’

  ‘No. I told you: I’m not staying there. I can’t.’

  ‘I’ll try Airbnb. And Vern. He’ll know of somewhere.’

  ‘Vern? Who’s Vern?’

  ‘My uncle.’

  She looks at him, disbelieving. ‘Your uncle? You have an uncle here?’

  ‘Yeah. Mum’s brother. I ran into him earlier today. By chance.’

  Mandy shakes her head with annoyance. ‘Right. And you were going to tell me that when, exactly?’

  Martin examines his feet. ‘He invited us to dinner. At his place.’

  ‘What? When?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Martin. No.’ Her irritation is all too evident. ‘I’m a murder suspect, unless you’ve forgotten. Your old schoolmate bled out in front of me yesterday morning, his blood all over me. I spent half the night in a police cell. I have a ten-month-old baby to care for. I’m not going out, eating nice food and drinking wine with your relatives. I’m just not.’ There’s an edge to her voice, almost hysterical. Martin realises she must have had very little sleep, the long day and the pressure of police scrutiny catching up with her. Liam is quiet, staring at his mother, as if sensing her mood.

  Martin knows himself to be a dick. ‘Listen, take Liam and grab a coffee or have something to eat. I’ll find somewhere to stay, okay? I’ll call you.’

  They meet at the townhouse, sitting at the end of its cul-de-sac, backing onto the river. Martin has booked a self-contained cabin at the caravan park on the opposite bank of the Argyle. Nothing flash, but on the phone it sounded big and private. First, Mandy needs to collect her clothes and all the equipment required to care for a twenty-first century baby. From outside, the townhouse looks nondescript, another unremarkable piece of urban architecture, all sharp angles and soft tones. Or it would, if it wasn’t for the police tape strung across the gate, the sinister-looking van parked outside, and two officers in blue plastic overalls with FORENSIC SERVICES emblazoned across their backs. The police are in the process of packing up. A middle-aged technician asks Mandy and Martin to wait while he phones for approval. ‘It’s okay. We’ve finished; you can come through if you really want to,’ he says. ‘But why don’t you come back tomorrow? The cleaners will have been through by then. It’s still pretty confronting in there.’

  Mandy is determined. ‘No. My baby. I need his stuff.’

  The man nods, then leads them around to the back of the property, through some banana trees by the river, along a path carved out by joggers and dog walkers above the retaining wall, and in via the small backyard. Small flags, yellow and numbered, trail out from the door, stuck into the lawn at regular intervals.

  ‘Footprints?’ Martin asks.

  ‘Yeah. Possibly the assailant. Whoever it was, he was running.’

  ‘He?’

  The forensics man is about to answer, then thinks better of it. ‘Sorry. You’ll have to ask the investigating officers that.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Martin amiably, as he regards the flags. For the most part he can’t see the footprints they’re indicating, but by the sliding glass door from the house, in the soil where the grass meets concrete, there is a clear impression. Martin crouches by the flag. To his inexpert eye the mark appears as if it’s been left by the sole of an ordinary shoe, the sort that might be worn by an office worker.

  ‘Can I photograph it?’ asks Martin.

  ‘No. Better not,’ says the forensics officer. ‘Not with our marker there.’ Then he smiles. ‘But we’ll be gone soon enough.’

  Martin stares at the footprint. It’s only partial, but it gives him hope: the more physical evidence, the sooner Mandy will be cleared.

  Inside the building, patches of fine dust have spread across every surface like fungal spores: black powder on the white laminated benchtops, pink powder on the brass doorhandles. Fingerprint dust. Otherwise, the kitchen and dining room look unremarkable, the mess of everyday life. The forensics officer leads them into the lounge. Liam’s playpen is there, but that’s not what draws their attention: dominating the archway through to the passage, a large rust-coloured pool of caked blood lies like a challenge. It stops them, and they stare at it. It’s not flat and smooth, not the way Martin would have imagined it; it must have started to congeal before they removed Jasper Speight, and there is the vague outline of the victim’s body. Martin stares; Mandy gags.

  Their guide leaves them and they carry cardboard boxes in from the garage. In the kitchen, Mandy loads equipment, what she needs for Liam: steamers and blenders and sterilisers, bottles and teats and plastic kitchenware. Upstairs she loads clothes, nappies, blankets. Martin helps, cautiously navigating his way clear of the blood at the bottom of the stairs. He dismantles Liam’s cot and a changing table and a high chair and the playpen. He’s never realised how much paraphernalia a small child requires.

  The townhouse is tidier than he remembers Mandy’s house in the country. Maybe she cleaned in preparation for his arrival; maybe she was yet to fully unpack and move in. The sink in the upstairs bathroom is spattered with brown liquid; for a moment he thinks it’s more blood, then realises it must be from dyeing her hair. He’s still fighting an uncooperative bolt
in the changing table when the forensic team leader reappears. ‘We’re off,’ he says. ‘All yours. Cleaners will be through later today or in the morning.’ Martin sees him out, then stalks through the apartment, photographing everything with his phone. In the yard, he takes every possible angle of the footprint, lying his car keys next to it for scale.

  The caravan park sits on the Argyle River on the opposite bank from the town and to the west of the bridge, where the Longton Road becomes Dunes Road. But Martin figures it doesn’t matter which side of the river you’re on, the closer to sea level, the closer to the breadline: there are no retaining walls on the north bank. He’s driving his ancient Corolla; Mandy and Liam follow in her new Subaru. He leads the way through the entrance, a rusting scaffold of triangulated metal supporting a faded sign, paint peeling: RIVERSIDE CARAVAN PARK. A plywood cut-out of a dolphin hangs from its nose, the bolt supporting its tail having broken off. Sooner or later, either the dolphin or the whole archway will come down, perhaps in the next big storm. Martin hopes they’ll be long gone by then, cocooned in their new home on the cliff, Hartigan’s. Through the entrance, the drive is lined by rocks and swans cut from old tyres, all painted white. And there are signs: CHILDREN AT PLAY and 10 KPH and ALL VISITORS MUST REPORT TO RECEPTION and CAMP ONLY IN ALLOCATED SITES and many, many more, a veritable forest of instructions and prohibitions. Martin wonders if there is some unwritten law: the lower the price, the higher the signage.

  The driveway splits. Yet another sign indicates the fork to the right is for PERMANENT RESIDENTS, while the path to the left is for TOURISTS—SHORT STAY. Sitting between the forks like a tollbooth is a two-storey house on stilts. It appears to favour short-stay customers; it’s leaning precariously in that direction. Martin pulls up next to it, beside a large red stop sign and an arrow: RECEPTION. Mandy stops behind him. The office is up some stairs, on the lower level.

  A middle-aged woman is sitting outside reception smoking a pipe. She’s wearing shorts and work boots, making no attempt to hide her prosthetic leg, a modern construction of gleaming metal and hi-tech composites. A blue heeler curls around her feet, blue smoke around her face. The dog raises its head, sniffs the breeze and returns to sleep, unimpressed, as Martin climbs from his car. ‘Afternoon.’

  ‘Afternoon,’ says the woman.

  ‘I rang earlier. About a cabin? Martin Scarsden,’ he says, standing at the bottom of the stairs.

  The woman regards the two cars, packed with luggage and equipment. ‘No problem. You want to take a look first?’

  ‘Sure. Is it by the river?’

  ‘Not likely. Over there, behind the trees. River views, though.’

  ‘Right,’ says Martin. For some reason he’s been imagining a balcony overlooking the water.

  ‘Floods,’ says the woman, sounding as if it should be obvious. ‘The only things by the river are campsites and self-drive spots. Cabins and ablutions on higher ground. Permanent residents higher again. Not high enough, mind you. We’re all screwed when the big one comes.’

  ‘I see,’ says Martin. ‘I’m surprised the council lets you stay.’

  That elicits a laugh from the woman, a throaty, tobacco-laden guffaw. ‘Ha. The council needs us. It’s like a retirement village, all the old coots who can’t afford anything better, plus the single mums and the invalid pensioners. And over here we’re out of the way. It’s either here or the Settlement, but who wants to live there?’ The woman glances at Mandy’s car, the new Subaru. ‘Don’t worry. They’re a good mob, they won’t disturb you. But keep yer valuables locked up, just in case.’

  chapter eight

  Vern’s house is a sprawling affair, the original weatherboard cottage having thrown out extensions over the years like a tree trunk sprouting branches, an organic budding of fibro, wood and weatherboard, so that the original building is hard to distinguish, all but engulfed by the additions. The roofline is covered with oddly angled solar panels, television aerials, satellite dishes, water heaters, chimneys of brick and steel, and what looks like foliage. Emphasising the building’s eccentricity, different parts of it are painted distinct hues, as if colour-coded by date of construction. It sits above a curve in the river on a five-hectare block, a rare peninsula of higher ground a few kilometres west of the bridge, out past the brick veneer and fibro rentals of the Settlement, beyond the town’s hospitality workers, manual labourers and fruit pickers, the invalid pensioners, the unemployed and the single mums, and miles from the high-tide mark of interstate money, out where the tourists never venture. The sun is low in the sky as Martin eases his car along the drive, passing citrus, avocado and banana trees, pulling up between a dark green hatchback, a battered and dusty Toyota truck, a HiAce van, and a red-and-black trail bike with L-plates and panniers. To the west, the last rays of sunlight bounce from the gleaming plastic shells of greenhouses spread patchwork across the plain.

  The front door is opened by a barefoot boy of about twelve wearing a bedraggled Nike t-shirt and a surly expression, his hair a bird’s-nest bouffant. ‘Yeah? Watcha want?’ he challenges.

  Before Martin can answer, Vern appears sporting a tattered apron and a broad grin. He ruffles the boy’s hair affectionately. ‘Come in, come in. Welcome!’ Vern shakes Martin’s hand with enthusiasm.

  There is no entry hall; the front door opens directly into a living room. It’s a small room made smaller by kids and clutter. Young children run here and there, playing some sort of hide-and-seek; one minion seizes onto Martin as a potential hiding place before deciding there is better cover to be found elsewhere. Older children, a bunch of three now joined by the tousle-haired boy, are sitting in front of a whopping great flat-screen television, ensnared by a video game. There’s a swell of noise: machine guns and myriad explosions from the TV mixing with the squeals and laughter of the younger children and the sound of the Rolling Stones throbbing out from somewhere deeper in the house. Semi-sorted washing is piled on chairs, a motley collection that would do any charity stall proud, and toys lie discarded on the floor. On one wall, a new air conditioner is working hard.

  It’s not what Martin had been expecting; he didn’t know his uncle had kids. Another little tacker of about three latches on to Martin’s left leg, insisting he be swung along. ‘Piggyback,’ demands the boy’s marginally older sister.

  ‘Jeez, Vern. Are they all yours?’

  ‘Nah, only half-a-dozen or so. I lose count.’ He beams with pride.

  A woman appears. There’s nothing reticent about her; she moves straight to Martin, engulfs him in a hug. ‘Welcome, Martin,’ she says, before releasing him. Martin sees her smile, broad and welcoming, and the warmth in her soft brown eyes. ‘I’m Josie.’ Only when she steps back does he notice the suggestions of her Indigenous heritage: the broad nose and darker complexion. She’s younger than Vern, maybe around the same age as Martin. She’s carrying a little weight but carrying it well; she seems fit and vital, wearing the khaki shirt and shorts of a ranger. ‘It’s so good to meet you at last,’ she says. ‘I feel like I already know you. Vern is always showing me your articles.’

  ‘Right.’ Martin feels awkward, glancing at his uncle.

  ‘Pity about the wedding, but you can’t be in two places at once,’ Josie continues, bending down to prise the child from his leg.

  Wedding? Christ.

  ‘Home brew?’ asks Vern, holding up a longneck lacking a label. ‘Or we’ve got some soft stuff, if the kids haven’t drunk it all.’

  ‘Home brew sounds good, thanks.’

  ‘So you do drink nowadays?’

  ‘Yeah, now and then.’

  A fight breaks out in front of the television; two teenage boys disputing possession of the video-game controller.

  Neither Vern nor Josie makes any attempt to arbitrate; Vern merely raises his eyebrows and rolls his eyes. ‘C’mon. Let’s get out of here.’ He leads Martin down a passageway, Josie following, with the two smallest children trailing behind. The lino-lined floor is soft and giving, unp
ainted plasterboard walls are covered in childish scrawls, finger painting and butcher-paper art. Martin glimpses cluttered bedrooms and bunk beds through open doors. There’s a smell of incense and dust and humanity. The corridor dog-legs to the right and back again and, through a recycled window, he can see why: the house has spread out and around a large macadamia tree, now dominating a small courtyard.

  ‘Catch you in a mo,’ says Josie, peeling off into a large kitchen, followed by the two infants. The room looks like a more recent addition, bright and airy, self-built but with appliances of stainless steel gleaming in the light from wide windows, skylights and a bank of LED bulbs. There’s a stockpot on a stovetop, gently steaming; Martin catches the odour of soup.

  Vern and Martin emerge onto an expansive deck—still under construction at its far end—extending along the back of the house. In the fading light Martin can see the decking nearest the door has seasoned to a pale grey, the wood darker out towards the new work. ‘Our second eldest, Josie’s girl Lucy May,’ says Vern by way of explanation. ‘Knocking it up between jobs.’ The deck may still be incomplete, but it’s already in use: there’s a huge gas barbecue sheltering against the kitchen wall, lurking beneath a spotless black plastic cover, and a long table, enough to sit a dozen people comfortably. It’s been cobbled together from two well-weathered predecessors, their ends sawn off at a shallow angle, the complementary sections joined together to make a larger whole. An assortment of chairs ring it, scavenged from who knows where, no two the same. Sitting by the table is an ancient esky full of ice. Vern extracts a longneck of home brew, cracks it with an opener tethered by string to the icebox. ‘Here you go. See what you reckon.’

  The bottle is cold in Martin’s hand. He raises it to his lips, takes a tentative sip, is relieved to find the beer light and clean, not the over-hopped brew he anticipated. ‘Bloody good,’ he says, and the two men clink their bottles, raise them to their lips and take a simultaneous draught.