The Survivors

by Jane Harper

  ‘Maybe, but –’ He shrugged. ‘I mean, whoever did that to Bronte, they’re not after blokes and babies, are they?’

  Mia wavered, then shrugged. ‘How can we really know that?’

  ‘Because …’ Because they just did, Kieran thought. He knew it for the same reasons Mia did. Because that was life. Because whatever else might come the way of grown men, they didn’t wind up strangled to death in the surf. Kieran had no problem walking around Evelyn Bay now for the same reason that he didn’t think twice about taking short cuts through unlit parks, and felt no need to quicken his pace when he heard footsteps on the pavement behind him at night. For the same reason that he would have gone home along the dark beach the night before, where Mia had taken one look and baulked. Kieran didn’t know what had happened to Bronte, but from thirty years of lived experience he knew that whatever it was, it wasn’t coming for him. Mia knew all this too. But she still made him leave Audrey at home.

  Kieran looked again at the photo of Bronte. He remembered when a photo of Finn and Toby had been posted in that same spot after the storm, with a similar collection box underneath.

  Kieran could still picture the exact image. It had been the one of Finn and Toby with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders, an unopened bottle of champagne in hand and the Nautilus Black gleaming behind them as they celebrated the first day of their new diving business. Kieran had been sixteen and standing out of shot on the dock when Brian had taken the picture. It had been a good day, he remembered.

  The photo had stayed on the noticeboard for nearly a year before Julian had tactfully, and after consultation with both families, removed it. Kieran wondered how long Bronte from Canberra’s picture would stay up. Probably less than that, he guessed.

  Kieran started heading back to Verity, who had come out of the toilets and was talking to another customer by the cash register. The man turned and Kieran recognised him as the bloke with the laptop who had tried and failed to get into the Surf and Turf that morning. The folded newspaper was gone, but the leather computer satchel was once again slung across his chest.

  ‘Kieran,’ Verity said, beckoning him over. ‘Come and meet G.R. Barlin.’

  ‘Really?’ Kieran said, the man’s facial features clicking into place as they shook hands. ‘We briefly met this morning actually. Sorry, I didn’t recognise you.’

  ‘Just George is fine. And don’t worry about it.’ The man waved his hand. ‘Does anyone ever recognise authors?’

  Kieran hesitated. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘They don’t.’

  ‘Oh.’ But Kieran could see it now. G.R. Barlin’s jaw was rather less chiselled and his gaze not nearly as piercing as the photo in the back of his books would suggest, but he had the sulky far-away look down pat.

  ‘George has moved here from Sydney,’ Verity said.

  ‘Right,’ Kieran said. ‘For the summer?’

  ‘No.’ The man’s tone had the hint of annoyance of someone who had been asked the question a few times. ‘Full-time. I’m renovating Wetherby House.’

  ‘Ah.’ Ash’s grandmother’s former home. ‘Garden too?’

  ‘Whole thing. It needed it,’ George added, slightly defensive.

  Whether it did or didn’t, Kieran couldn’t say, but at least that went some way to explaining Ash’s unveiled hostility.

  Everyone, including possibly Ash himself, had been surprised when Ash announced he was starting his own landscaping business. And no-one, again possibly including Ash, had taken him too seriously at first. But he had rolled up his sleeves and spent the whole spring and summer digging and planting at his gran’s place, turning the generous garden around the sandstone home into a living advertisement. Kieran and Sean had spent the same summer lounging about on the deck of the Nautilus Black, chatting to tourists and dipping into the cool sea, before swinging by Wetherby House to find Ash with his back hunched and sweat running down his face.

  Had it been Sean, or even possibly Kieran, stuck doing grunt work in his gran’s garden in the heat, they probably would have copped a bit of shit for it. But Ash simply didn’t care. He did what he liked and defended it to nobody. And the property had looked great by the end. Ash’s gran had baked him a cake as a thank you for his months of labour and he, Kieran and Sean had celebrated by getting steaming drunk by the beach.

  The garden had been beautiful for three whole weeks, then the storm had hit. Ash’s work was destroyed, with plantings ripped apart and uprooted bushes and trees leaving deep trenches of exposed soil. But Ash had been back out there the very next day, hunched and sweating again to restore the chaos. He had succeeded, Kieran had thought, but apparently not to a high enough standard for G.R. Barlin.

  Kieran looked at the author now. Up close, he was younger than Kieran would have guessed, given his body of work. Early forties at the most. He was wearing a chunky knit cardigan, which had the worn-in rustic look of something that could only be expensive. Kieran wondered if he’d bought it especially for his move to the Tasmanian coast. It was the kind of thing he thought a writer might envisage himself wearing down here, searching out to sea for his muse while the brisk salty air chapped his face. And George Barlin wouldn’t be the first creative type to have come to Evelyn Bay seeking some sort of elusive inspiration.

  ‘What made you choose here?’ Kieran said, and George shrugged.

  ‘Nostalgia, really. My parents brought me on holiday a few times when I was younger, and I visited again myself on and off over the years. Always liked it. And it seemed like as good a place to work from as any.’

  ‘You’re writing something new?’ Kieran asked.

  ‘Yep.’ George tapped his laptop bag with an overstated eye roll. ‘Always on the treadmill. But I prefer not to talk about my work too much, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Kieran suppressed a smile. He had once gone with Mia to see G.R. Barlin appear at a literary event in Sydney. The writer had been on a panel with two women authors and spoken for easily half the time. ‘Well, my partner will be sorry she missed you,’ Kieran said. ‘She’s a big fan.’

  That was true, and Kieran himself liked the books too. They were the kind of thrillers people bought in the airport, stayed glued to beside the pool and then left in their hotel room to save on luggage weight. They sold by the shedload.

  Lyn bustled back to swipe George’s credit card and caught the last comment.

  ‘I’m surprised Mia has any time for books, with that beautiful baby at home,’ she said. ‘I know I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Not a big reader?’ Kieran said.

  Lyn scrunched up her face. ‘I did read a book once. Wasn’t for me.’

  ‘You should try one of George’s,’ Verity said. ‘They’re good.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. Only the early ones, though.’ Lyn flashed an affable grin at the writer, as though expecting confirmation. ‘Don’t bother with the rest. That’s what Fiona reckons, anyway.’

  ‘Fiona?’ George’s voice was completely, determinedly, neutral. Lyn didn’t notice.

  ‘From the plant nursery? You know, she cuts those hedges into the shape of animals.’

  ‘Right. Yes.’ George returned his credit card to his wallet and closed it with a firm snap. ‘Well, it’s a shame she feels that way. And I’ve always thought so highly of her creative talents.’

  Lyn frowned slightly, sensing something a little off behind George’s smile. She was distracted by one of the police officers signalling for a water refill and bustled away.

  ‘And yet if I were to stop by the nursery to tell Fiona her hedge animals are unrecognisable, I’m the arsehole,’ George murmured as he adjusted his laptop bag. ‘Anyway, nice to meet you.’ He shook Kieran’s hand. ‘Give my best to your partner. Was that her you were with this morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  George nodded, and looked past Kieran to the mak
eshift memorial to Bronte on the noticeboard. Kieran remembered seeing Bronte bring the writer a glass of wine the night before, managing to raise a smile from him as he’d glowered at his laptop.

  ‘What a dreadful business that is,’ George said. ‘Poor Bronte. Unbelievable.’

  ‘Did you know her well?’ Verity said.

  ‘Only from in here,’ George said. ‘But I’m in here quite a lot. Did you ever see any of her drawings?’

  ‘A couple. And she showed me a little wire sculpture creature she was working on. She seemed very good.’

  ‘I thought so too. Serious about it as well, which you don’t always get in the more creative fields. She was focused. Had a professional approach to it all.’ George’s mouth was a hard downturned line. ‘I would never have expected something like that to happen around here.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have, a few years ago,’ Verity said. ‘I suppose that’s the risk with the tourists. You never know who’s in town now, with so many people coming through.’

  There weren’t that many people, though, Kieran thought. A couple of weeks earlier in the summer maybe, when two out of every three people on the street was a stranger. But not at this time of year, with its empty tables and closed shops and vacant parking spots.

  Kieran suspected George was thinking the same thing as the man looked around the hushed restaurant. His gaze came to rest on the table of police officers.

  ‘I hear they’re bringing Liam Gilroy in for questioning again,’ George said quietly. He glanced at Lyn by the serving hatch. ‘She’ll be happy. Thinks the police have got their man.’

  ‘And what do you think?’ Kieran asked, interested.

  ‘Me?’ George shrugged. ‘I think it’s important in civilised society to respect due process.’ He turned his phone over in his hand. ‘Despite what the keyboard warriors of EBOCH may think.’

  ‘The online community page?’ Verity said. ‘I didn’t think anyone really used that.’

  ‘Well, people have found a use for it now. Still, I’m sure the police know what they’re doing –’

  Curious, Kieran had pulled out his own phone to look up this community page, and felt a lurch as he saw the screen. Eight missed calls from Mia. He started to raise the phone to his ear, then stopped, his finger hovering over the redial button. George had stopped talking and was focused on Sergeant Renn over at the police officers’ table.

  Kieran followed his gaze. Renn was speaking softly into his own mobile. As Kieran watched, the officer raised his eyes and looked once, directly and unmistakably, at Verity, then away again almost as quickly. Renn ended the call. He sat for a moment, then pulled himself out of his chair and began to head across the restaurant. The TV reporter glanced up – nothing to see but Renn, slow and casual, coffee cup still in hand – and dropped his attention back down to his phone. Renn ended his stroll right next to Verity. He took a deep swallow of coffee as the cameraman returned from his smoke break. She simply waited. Renn watched until the man was safely out of earshot.

  ‘Sorry, Verity.’ His voice was low. ‘It’s about Brian.’

  Chapter 15

  It was still early when Kieran hit the cliff path the next morning. Audrey was wide awake, her dark eyes alert as she bounced along strapped to his chest, her nappy bag slung over his shoulder. Kieran’s own head felt thick and heavy. It had taken a long time before he and Mia and Verity had been able to get to their beds, and even then Kieran had lain awake for what felt like hours.

  He and Verity had left their order uncollected at the Surf and Turf and followed Sergeant Renn outside, where he had driven them the three minutes to Fisherman’s Cottage. They had ducked under the police tape at the front gate and run down the side trail and out onto the dark beach. Kieran could hear shouts and the sound of his daughter shrieking. Mia was already on the sand, Audrey angry in her arms.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Mia was saying. ‘I tried to stop him. I’m sorry.’

  Kieran had run to them first, then chased Verity down to the water’s edge.

  Brian was in the sea, neck-deep. His t-shirt broke the surface as he swam through the black water with strong, confident strokes. The police tape that had been tied to stakes on the beach where Bronte’s body was found now trailed behind him like seaweed.

  A pair of young officers were soaked to their armpits, their shoes and socks paired neatly on the dry sand while they floundered in the water. Kieran reached the shoreline in time to see one catch his dad. Brian bellowed and flailed his arms as the other man joined the struggle to pull him out. Brian had fought, dragging both cops and himself under the water as Verity herself had kicked off her shoes and waded in without breaking stride. Kieran was right behind her. The police officers had backed off when he and Verity managed to reach Brian. The three of them had swayed together in the freezing water while Verity held Brian’s hands beneath the surface and whispered softly.

  Brian eventually allowed himself to be led out. Kieran and Verity had walked him to the beach, their trio of moon-cast shadows forming a grotesque echo of The Survivors against the sand. Brian had laid himself out flat on his back near the shoreline, his arms and legs stretched out as though he was enjoying the weather. Kieran had lain down next to him, his teeth chattering.

  On his way into the water, Brian must have traipsed through floral tributes left on the beach for Bronte. Ribbon and cellophane were strewn about like dead sea creatures and Kieran could see Mia clutching Audrey with one arm as she tried to gather and reassemble the pile. He knew he should help her but instead had stayed next to his dad, staring up at the stars and listening as Brian’s ragged breathing mingled with his own daughter’s high-pitched screams. When Kieran turned his head, he could see Verity sitting some distance away, her face in her hands and her shirt stuck to her back. Kieran wasn’t sure if she was shivering or crying or both.

  Kieran had felt like he hadn’t got the energy to move, ever again, but eventually Sergeant Renn had crouched and suggested quietly that it might be a good idea to get going before the TV guys hauled themselves out of the Surf and Turf and wandered down to set up for their bulletin.

  It was only later, back at the house, that Kieran noticed the reddening around Mia’s jawline, and the beginnings of a bruise on her wrist. He held her arm under the lamp.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It’s nothing. Let’s get to bed.’ She was still shaken though, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

  ‘But –’

  ‘It’s fine. I told you. I tried to stop him. Just –’ Mia let her arm slip from his grasp. ‘Don’t leave me alone with him again, okay?’

  Kieran was walking furiously now, the ocean breeze whipping across the cliff path and snatching at his clothes.

  When morning had come, Kieran had told Mia to stay in bed and get some sleep. She had blinked awake.

  ‘We didn’t even offer to walk her home.’ Mia’s eyes were swollen and Kieran wondered if she’d been crying in the night.

  ‘Who?’ Kieran scrambled to catch up. ‘Bronte?’

  Mia nodded against her pillow. ‘At the Surf and Turf on Saturday night. We asked Olivia if she wanted us to wait, but we didn’t ask Bronte. We were going right past her house. We could have walked her home.’

  They looked at each other for a long time and finally Mia rolled over. Kieran said he would take Audrey out, and this time Mia didn’t protest, just closed her eyes without saying anything.

  Out in the hall, Kieran had heard Verity in the kitchen. Her voice was a low murmur, and she stopped as Kieran entered. She was sitting opposite Brian, rubbing suncream into his arms, the way she had with Kieran when he was little. Kieran wasn’t sure what Verity had been saying, but from the look on Brian’s face, he wouldn’t have bet on him absorbing a word of it.

  ‘Mia has bruises from last night. She’s hurt.’

  Verity frowned. Her palms were slick
as she smoothed the cream into Brian’s skin. ‘Badly?’

  ‘Not badly, but she shouldn’t be hurt at all.’

  ‘Of course not. I’m very sorry.’

  ‘Jesus, I’m not looking for an apology.’ Kieran looked at his dad. ‘I’m saying he’s getting out of hand. Mia had Audrey with her.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have meant it.’

  ‘I know that, but –’

  ‘But what?’ Verity said, her voice suddenly hard, her hands still on her husband’s arm. ‘But what, Kieran? He didn’t mean it. Look at him.’ She lifted Brian’s hand. He held it out, obedient and childlike. ‘He doesn’t realise he’s done anything. So what is it you want? Do you think he should be punished? For something he doesn’t even know he’s done? Do you think that’s fair?’

  Verity had stared at him until he’d looked away. Brian didn’t move.

  Kieran hadn’t given her an answer. He didn’t know what he thought.

  He reached a split in the cliff trail now and stopped. To the right lay the track up to the lookout, and to the left he could see the iron gates guarding the back entrance to the Evelyn Bay cemetery. Kieran felt Audrey move and settle against his chest. The walk had soothed her at least, if not him.

  He wandered towards the gates. They were open, with a sign screwed to the post informing visitors the cemetery would be locked at sundown each day. Somewhat to Kieran’s own surprise, he stepped inside. The gravel path leading him forward was well cared for, with lush but tasteful shrubs planted alongside. Ash’s handiwork, Kieran guessed. He’d held the maintenance contract for a while now. It all looked different from how Kieran remembered, but then again he hadn’t been there since Finn and Toby’s funeral. He’d meant to come, a few times. He just hadn’t.

  Kieran followed the pathway, realising with a stab of shame that he couldn’t remember where his brother’s grave was. He could picture the funeral, parts of it at least, but if he had absorbed any specific details of the burial location, he couldn’t remember them now. He wasn’t even sure where to begin. The cemetery layout was disordered, with generations of Evelyn Bay residents having chosen to see out eternity right there, and all with a slightly different idea of how they’d like to lie. Kieran knew he had made the journey to Finn’s burial with his parents by road, the car ride conducted in mute grief as they followed the hearses, and he turned now towards the main gates to the west.