Dead in the Water

by Tania Chandler

  DEAD IN THE WATER

  Tania Chandler is a Melbourne-based writer and editor. Her debut novel, Please Don’t Leave Me Here, was selected for State Library Victoria’s Summer Read program, and has been shortlisted for best debut novel for both the Davitt and Ned Kelly awards. Dead in the Water is her second novel, and is a sequel to Please Don’t Leave Me Here.

  For Mum

  Scribe Publications

  18–20 Edward St, Brunswick, Victoria 3056, Australia

  2 John Street, Clerkenwell, London, WC1N 2ES, United Kingdom

  First published by Scribe 2016

  Copyright © Tania Chandler 2016

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publishers of this book.

  9781925321593 (Australian paperback)

  9781911344049 (UK paperback)

  9781925307825 (e-book)

  CiP data records for this title are available from the National Library of Australia and the British Library.

  scribepublications.com.au

  scribepublications.co.uk

  1

  Brigitte jogged, with Ella asleep in the three-wheel pram and Zippy straining at his lead, along Fifth Parade towards the foreshore. It was early autumn, but the trees on Raymond Island never relinquished their leaves. Brigitte disliked this time of year, the days drawing in, the threat of winter in the air. The cold brought memories of pain to her body.

  Moored fishing boats, sailing boats, and cruisers bobbed on McMillan Strait, silver glitter in the sunlight. She slowed her pace at the start of the boardwalk, sticking to the right-hand side, as far from the water as possible. The boards were the parched grey of old bones, tufts of seagrass growing up through the gaps. The breeze carried a smell like wet dog, almost as strong as the eucalyptus in the air. She shivered as it chilled her sweat.

  An old fisherman was setting up his gear on the first jetty. Around the pylons, black swans fed on algae and submerged weeds, their legs waggling comically in the air as heads and long necks dipped into the darkness beneath the surface.

  Brigitte looked across at the mainland. It was peak hour, and a line of about ten cars snaked beside the road, waiting for the cable ferry — the only way to access the island without a boat. She saw her husband’s Ford Territory in the queue, and turned the pram and dog to beat him home.

  At the start of Sixth Avenue, she let Zippy off his lead — a big brindle flash until he spotted a koala low in the manna gum out front of their house. Zippy attempted to climb the tree, failed awkwardly, and barked with his front paws on the trunk. The koala, appearing nonchalant, climbed to a higher branch and went back to sleep.

  Harry was tinkering next door in his boat-repair workshop under the carport. A whiff of linseed and tung oil on the air. Brigitte waved.

  ‘G’day, Brig.’ Harry’s salt-and-pepper hair flopped over his forehead. One of the flannel polishing cloths he bought in bulk from Lang Hardware was draped over his shoulder. Best rags in Victoria. ‘Got some lemons from the tree for ya.’

  ‘Come and get them later. Hands full now.’ She pointed to Ella asleep in the pram and tilted her head at Zippy attacking the tree.

  ‘No worries.’ Harry — a bachelor, mid-to-late forties — was one of the other young people living on the island.

  The pram tipped dangerously to a forty-five-degree angle as Brigitte struggled to drag it up onto her back porch. She felt a twinge of pain in her lower back — and a surge of panic — as she righted it. Only a twinge. After the last back operation, 99 per cent of her pain was gone. A twinge every now and then was nothing to worry about.

  Ella was still asleep. Brigitte slid open the door and pushed the pram through the house to the middle bedroom, where sunlight dappled the carousel ponies below the architraves. She heard tyres crunch gravel on the driveway as she pulled Ella’s door shut.

  Zippy’s happy-excited bark; a car door closed, the gate creaked.

  ‘Zippy, no.’ A squeaky laugh that didn’t suit him. And then, in the growly dog voice the vet had told them to use on Zippy: ‘Down, Zippy.’ The voice Zippy never paid any attention to; he continued to bark, jump, and lick.

  Brigitte crossed the porch, a wiggle in her walk. ‘Detective Senior Sergeant, is that a gun in your pocket?’

  ‘Will there ever be a day when I come home and you don’t say that?’

  ‘No. You know I like repetition.’ She kissed him, held his head in her hands — dark hair not as short, face not as closely shaven since they’d moved from the city. When she was standing on the porch and he was on the ground, they were almost the same height.

  He stepped up and strode towards the door, wiped his shoes on the mat.

  ‘Shh, Ella’s asleep in there,’ she said.

  He turned in the doorway. ‘Where’re the twins?’

  ‘Emily and Josh’s.’

  He had a crooked smile, one side higher than the other. Sometimes it made him look clever, sometimes smug. ‘Want a beer?’

  ‘Sure.’ She walked across the backyard to unpeg the clothes from the line while he went inside.

  He returned with two stubbies of Coopers, twisted off the tops, drank from one, placed them both on the table, and sank back in the ancient black leather couch.

  ‘How was your day?’ Crack: she dropped the plastic laundry basket on the porch.

  ‘Flat out, as usual. Coupla kids chroming in the park. Some cattle on the road near Sale. Dude shop-lifted a can of drink from Kmart.’

  She kneeled astride his thighs, swallowed a mouthful of beer, and reached, twisted — tested for pain — to place the bottle on the coffee table. Not even a sliver. ‘And how’s your shoulder?’ She undid a couple of top buttons and opened his shirt to inspect the pink scar tissue of the circular wound.

  ‘Better now,’ he said as she kissed it.

  ‘I like the look of the new uniforms,’ she said in between more kisses and un-buttoning.

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Maybe you could get hold of one?’

  ‘Almost got to wear one every day after the fuck-up in Melbourne.’

  ‘Be very sexy on you.’

  ‘See what I can do. But only if you can find one of your old stripper costumes.’

  ‘Aidan!’ She pulled away. He knew that subject was taboo; it always got a rise out of her.

  ‘What? You started it.’ He pulled her face back to his.

  She forgave him quickly — flipped onto her back and dragged him down on top.

  ‘Hope Harry’s not looking over the back fence,’ he said as he peeled back her clothes.

  ‘Have I told you what a good fuck you are?’ She slid her hands down and unzipped his trousers.

  ‘Not recently.’

  ‘It has been a while.’

  He buried his face in the crook of her neck. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Shh. Everything’s OK.’ She stroked his hair, and then reached back over her head, gripped the arm of the couch, closed her eyes, and whispered in his ear what she wanted him to do with her. Repeatedly.

  Their beers went warm in the last of the afternoon sun.

  The bathroom door was open so Brigitte could see into the kitchen while she washed Ella’s dark, wavy hair. No complaints, no tantrums, as she combed through conditioner. Such a calm child, so much easier to deal with than Phoebe when she was three.

  El
la picked at the fraying Band-Aid on her knee.

  ‘If you pull it off slowly, it hurts for a long time,’ Brigitte said. ‘But if you rip it off quickly, it only hurts for a few seconds. Want me to have a go?’

  Ella shook her head, and straightened her leg quickly under the water.

  ‘What’s for dinner, Brig?’ Aidan called as he looked in the fridge and took out another beer.

  ‘Well, I was a bit busy today, the gym, reading my book, playing with Ella, walking Zippy. I didn’t quite get around to organising that.’ She rinsed Ella’s hair. ‘If you put on some pasta, I’ll heat up a jar of sauce when we’re finished in here.’

  ‘Pub?’

  ‘You always have the best ideas. That’s why I married you.’

  ‘Thought it was because I was a good — Phoebe, hi, what’s happening?’

  Brigitte heard Phoebe stomp in and dump her school bag on the floor. Finn wasn’t far behind her.

  Aidan said, ‘Don’t slam the —’

  Slam: Finn banged the screen door shut. ‘Hi, Aidan. Mum, Ella,’ he called as he rushed past, on his way to the Xbox in the lounge room.

  Phoebe leaned against the breakfast bar and stretched like a cat. When she tilted her head back, her silky blonde hair met the top of her denim shorts. Her T-shirt was too tight — Brigitte would bin it the next time it went through the wash. The straight lines of Phoebe’s lean little body were softening into curves; nine seemed far too young for that. Please don’t let her be like I was, Brigitte wished every day. Surely there was no chance of that. Not with so much love surrounding her. And a cop for a stepfather.

  ‘I’m hungry. What’s for dinner, Aidan?’ Phoebe said.

  ‘Ring the pub and find out.’

  ‘They’ll say chips.’

  Something crashed outside the bathroom window. Brigitte jumped up; there was a scuffling sound, and Zippy barked.

  ‘What the fuck!’ Aidan slammed his beer on the breakfast bar and rushed into the bathroom.

  Brigitte frowned at him. ‘Nothing. Probably just a koala bear.’ She stood on tiptoes to see out the window, but it was too dark.

  Ella looked from Aidan to Brigitte, her bottom lip wobbling. Brigitte lifted her out of the bath, wrapped her in a towel, and carried her on one hip to the kitchen.

  Aidan took a torch and went outside.

  ‘What is it, Mummy?’ Phoebe’s eyes were wide; she looked five years old again.

  Finn slid across the painted floorboards on socked feet. ‘What’s Zippy barking at?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Brigitte wrapped an arm around Phoebe.

  ‘Aidan should bring his gun home,’ Finn said.

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘People don’t like cops, you know.’

  ‘Stop it, Finn.’

  ‘Or their families.’

  ‘Where did you hear that?’

  He shrugged, tapped a toe on the floor, looked at his feet. There was a hole in his sock.

  The barking stopped. Footsteps and claws on the porch. Aidan slid open the door. Zippy was at his heels, wagging his tail and panting with a dumb, happy look on his face, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth like a slice of ham. Phoebe ran to Aidan. Ella squirmed out of Brigitte’s arms and followed her big sister.

  ‘What?’ Brigitte said.

  Aidan shrugged, his girls hanging off him.

  ‘A koala bear?’ Brigitte saw the torch shaking in his hand.

  ‘They’re not bears, Brig.’

  His hands never shook before Laurie Hunt.

  2

  Brigitte stared out the window. Sunlight and shadows streaked Gip TV’s manicured lawn; green patches of moisture crept up the thirsty, grey fence. She looked back at the computer screen and tapped two fingertips on the mouse, uninspired about writing a fifteen-second TV-commercial script about water tanks. She opened Facebook and took a bite of her salad roll.

  ‘Guess who’s going to be in Lakes tomorrow?’

  Kumiko, the receptionist, was always sneaking up on her. She swallowed her mouthful. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Guess.’

  ‘I don’t know. Nick Cave?’

  ‘No. Give up?’

  She nodded and sipped her apple juice through a straw.

  ‘Matt Elery.’

  Kumiko waited until Brigitte stopped choking on her juice, and said, ‘Book signing at Lakes Books.’

  She sucked up a big drink.

  ‘Read any of his books?’

  ‘Not my cup of tea.’ She opened a drawer, pretended to look for something, and then banged it shut. ‘Have you finished the brief for the Metron TVC yet?’

  ‘His new novel’s set here.’

  Brigitte swivelled her chair.

  ‘It’s fictionalised, but everybody’s saying it’s Gippsland. About a cop whose wife is found dead in a lake. Called Dead in the Water.’

  Brigitte scoffed. ‘He wouldn’t call his book that. Nobody would call their book that.’

  ‘He did. Wanna go?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The book signing.’

  She pressed down on the arms of her chair. ‘I’m busy tomorrow.’

  Cam, the production manager, placed an A4 document in front of Brigitte and tapped it with his knuckles, then chubby fingers. Kumiko scuttled back to the reception desk.

  ‘What’s this?’ Brigitte looked up at Cam’s lineless face.

  ‘Bairnsdale farmers’ market script.’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Nothing. You have to be on camera for it.’

  She frowned and rubbed an eye.

  ‘Talent hasn’t turned up and we have to shoot it now.’

  She shook her head. ‘No way.’

  ‘Yes way. Has to air before the weekend. Maree Carver’s coming up to promote her new cookbook at the market.’

  ‘Get Kumiko to do it. She loves being on telly.’

  ‘No. You’re the only one around here who fits the brief: anglo, friendly looking, late twenties.’

  She laughed at the late twenties.

  ‘Yeah, we’re really pushing it there.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Come on. Won’t take long. Practise your lines in the car.’

  Brigitte tied on a Bairnsdale farmers’ market apron while Cam decked out the display kitchen like the set of a cooking show: designer cookware; chopping boards topped with fresh herbs; small bowls filled with oils, condiments, raw eggs. He placed a Metron Homes brochure indiscreetly on the granite bench — a free plug for the use of the location.

  Maree’s Family Cooking stood on a bookstand: Maree Carver wearing a blue-and-white-striped apron, and looking up from an old-fashioned, basin-style bowl, a TV-smile on her face. Brigitte opened the book to a cake recipe, and watched Cam untangle cords and set up the camera and lights. Johnno, the lighting technician, was having a sickie.

  Cam brought in a step stool for her to stand on, and smirked. ‘For the vertically challenged.’ He filled a mixing bowl with a packet cake mix and asked if she wanted a rehearsal.

  ‘No, just shoot it. Get it over with.’ A thought fluttered up, like dust: What would Matt Elery look like now? The thought was swept away as Cam stuck his hand down the front of her apron. ‘Oh my God, Cam! What are you doing?’

  ‘Oh, pleeaase, just trying to attach the lav mic. Here, you do it.’ He handed her the microphone. ‘Stick it in your cleavage.’

  She attached the tiny microphone to her skin with double-sided tape, threaded the wire under her apron and shirt, and stuck the transmitter in her back pocket. While she was managing this, she did the maths: He’d be forty-seven now.

  When she thought Cam was ready, she looked down the barrel of the camera and said the lines from the script: ‘I always love cooking for my family and I
’m so —’

  ‘I wasn’t ready. You have to wait till I say “action”.’

  She groaned.

  ‘OK. Camera rolling, and, action.’

  ‘I always love cooking for my family and I’m so excited Maree Carver, from One, Two, Three, Cook!, is coming to Bairnsdale.’ She followed the script — looked engagingly at the cookbook while holding a jug of milk over the bowl.

  A watery memory of Matt: He’s wearing long denim shorts and a white T-shirt; his feet are bare. She’s worried about him standing on a syringe in the street. He looks so out of place in this part of town — fresh and shiny against the grunge. She’s looking out a taxi window, sees the flash of his blue eyes from the other side of the street. Was she arriving or leaving? Was that the last time she saw him? No, he came to the hospital years later. ‘Maree will be holding cooking demonstrations at the Bairnsdale market this Sat—’

  ‘Cut! Bairnsdale farmers’ market. Come on, Brig, you wrote these lines, you should know them.’

  She gritted her teeth.

  ‘Ready? Remember: friendly, happy, happy — preparing a marvellous meal for the kiddies and that sexy hubby of yours.’

  Guilt flooded her chest. For what? Thoughts don’t count.

  ‘Rolling, and, action.’

  ‘Maree will be holding cooking demonstrations at the Bairnsdale farmers’ market this Saturday.’ She wrinkled her brow, trying to make a confused face like it said in the script. ‘Do I blend or fold? I never know the difference.’ She shrugged and poured the milk into the bowl, stirring with a wooden spoon.

  ‘OK, great. Now let’s do it again.’ He came from behind the camera and refilled the jug. ‘With a bit more energy this time.’

  They shot it again.

  And again.

  And again.

  ‘What was wrong that time?’

  ‘Nothing. Just need a few to choose from when I’m editing. Too many’s better than not enough.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘You said this wouldn’t take long.’

  ‘Depending on the talent.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  Seventies music — ‘Kiss You All Over’ — swooned from somewhere.