Dead in the Water

by Tania Chandler

  Oh God. His fingers inside her, so wet.

  ‘God, I want to fuck you,’ he said.

  She moaned and arched her back, aching for him. Aching as you should only ever ache in a dream — for something that should never be. Wanting, having, falling, drowning. If you love me, you’ll come in.

  Telemarketers aren’t allowed to call this late? ‘Stop.’ She pushed him away.

  ‘Nobody will know.’ He tried again, but she pushed harder and he sat up.

  She straightened her shirt, smoothed her hair, and cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Her lipstick was smeared over his face. She saw what she hadn’t noticed at the bookshop: the wrinkles around his eyes, the grey hairs among the blond. The photo on his book jacket must have been taken a few years back, or been photoshopped. She also saw what she’d missed nineteen years ago: the condescension under the charm.

  He took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘You suddenly remembered how much you love your husband and your children.’ He steepled his fingers together and exhaled. ‘They’re lucky.’

  She couldn’t tell if he was angry or sad. He turns away at the top of the stairs, the cold bluestone wall, her key on the bottom step as she leaves him for the last time. Had she walked home or caught a taxi? She couldn’t remember. How long had he waited before returning that Tiffany box?

  She’d been right in the hospital half a decade ago: she had nothing more to say to him. It was just the cooking sherry.

  When he stood up, she blinked and averted her eyes from his erection.

  He left the room and came back with blankets and a pillow, and dropped them on the couch. ‘If you change your mind, first door on the left.’

  Dried garlic and chillies hung from the ceiling in Matt’s kitchen. A hundred condiments were lined up on the bench. An expensive-looking coffee machine and an old-fashioned set of scales, like Nana used to have, sat next to a block of serious-looking knives. Brigitte thought she was going to vomit as she drank a glass of water.

  She unlocked the back door and stepped into Matt’s little paved courtyard. She leaned against the house, nausea subsiding with gulps of freezing air. The rain had stopped and the city sky was ashen. Under a mini-basketball hoop, a child’s scooter rested against the wooden fence. She thought about ruffling Finn’s hair and kissing the top of his head. She wanted to hug Ella, and hold Phoebe even tighter. Most of all, she wanted Aidan.

  She returned to the lounge room, found her phone in her bag, the photos of Matt’s son watching her. A siren screamed along Separation Street as she woke her phone up with a swipe. The keypad-dial screen was already open, Aidan on the top of her contacts list. No wonder they’re called smart phones. Her hands shook. Nothing happened. Papa had died, Ryan was in hospital, she was very drunk, but still nothing had happened. Such strength and restraint, Brigitte, you deserve a medal. Too bad there’s already a Saint Brigit.

  She took her phone back outside, hesitated, and then called him.

  ‘Hi, honey.’ What the fuck was she doing? She didn’t call him honey; she’d never called anybody honey. ‘I just noticed your missed calls. The ring volume was turned down.’ She was trying hard to sound sober, but it wasn’t working.

  ‘Been ringing Kerry’s landline.’

  ‘Really?’ A little too bright — her that’s amazing what you did at kinder today voice. ‘Must be off the hook.’

  ‘No. It’s ringing out.’

  ‘I’ll check. Might have to report it out of order.’

  Silence.

  She could smell Matt on her skin and in her hair: herbs and musk, and sweat. She wanted a shower. She wiped her mouth. Somebody dumped bottles into the recycle bin next door.

  ‘I love you,’ she said.

  He hung up. She stood there in the cold for a while.

  Sitting on the toilet, she looked down at her slippery underpants, glistening in Matt’s bathroom light. Ashamed, she wiped them with toilet paper.

  There was a bottle of Calvin Klein’s Obsession for Men on the shelf. Nausea rose again as she washed her hands. She was a mess: hair matted, make-up smudged, eyes bloodshot. Aidan knows. This time she really was going to be sick. She dropped to her knees and heaved up her guts. It was all liquid, no food. Imagine if Matt walked in now and saw her driving the porcelain bus like a pathetic teenager after year-twelve graduation. Crazy what he could have had.

  She flushed and rested her head on the seat for a minute or two. His toilet was much cleaner than the one at home. She reached for the toilet paper, wiped her mouth, and sat back against the basin cupboard, shivering, hugging her knees.

  Aidan could have put a police trace on her phone, or something. She was being silly as usual, paranoid. It was late; he’d just sounded tired. She was tired. Of course he didn’t know. And anyway, nothing happened. Just like she’d seen nothing as Maree Carver’s body was lifted from the water — only the ferry’s flashing red light reflected in the Bateau House’s glass doors.

  After she’d booked a taxi back to Kerry’s house, she straightened the blankets and pillow on Matt’s couch. She pulled on her coat and tiptoed down the hallway. Soft snores drifted from his bedroom.

  She waited for the taxi on the street, without once looking back. The rain started again, falling in sheets, opalescent in the streetlight.

  Dead in the Water was on Kerry’s kitchen table where she’d left it, next to the bowl of papier-mache fruit. She threw the keys and her bag down and rushed to the bathroom.

  She washed her hair and brushed her teeth in the shower, and scrubbed away with Kerry’s raspberry body wash every trace of Matt and his Obsession.

  She slept the cruel fitful sleep of the guilty and the drunken. In a dream, she was looking at old photographs of herself in an album, wishing she still looked like that. Then she was walking down a street with Papa, past the pub in Clifton Hill where she and Ryan used to drink. Phoebe ran across the road — she was little, wearing the red coat she’d had when she was five. Lights shined on her. Headlights. Soundlessly, a car ran her over and didn’t stop. Brigitte ran to her without screaming. She cradled Phoebe’s limp body on the road and yelled for Papa to help her. But he was gone.

  She woke up whimpering.

  Last night didn’t come back immediately. At first it was fuzzy — black-and-white, abstract, but soon the images sharpened to screaming colour. Oh, no, no, no, I kissed him. More? No, just a kiss. Nothing. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. It was too hot; she kicked off the doona. Diaphragm breathing wasn’t enough. She cupped her hands over her mouth and nose, sucking in carbon dioxide and wishing for Valium.

  She walked through Kerry’s house — holding onto the wall, head pounding — and drank two glasses of water in the kitchen.

  There was a text to Aidan on her phone that she couldn’t remember sending: Goodnight my darling. You are my light. Love you so much xxx. He hadn’t replied.

  It was 5.32am. Too early to ring her family, to check they were OK, to remind Aidan to hold the kids’ hands when they crossed the road.

  19

  ‘Is anybody else coming this morning?’ The funeral celebrant — Brigitte had forgotten his name — sipped tea from a mug with a kookaburra illustration on it.

  She looked at him over the bowl of papier-mache fruit. He had floppy white hair, rosebud lips, and glasses. ‘My husband’ll be here soon.’ She glanced at her phone. No new messages or missed calls. She shifted in the uncomfortable chair and poured strong coffee into her blue bird mug, fairy-wren printed at the bottom.

  ‘No parents or brothers and sisters?’

  ‘My dad died when I was little, my mother couldn’t make it, and my brother is … not feeling well.’

  The celebrant folded his smooth, white hands on the table, and said they should get started soon. His voice was modulated, comforting. He smelled faintly of laven
der.

  ‘Could I just try my husband first?’ She picked up her phone.

  The celebrant nodded and smiled sympathetically.

  Aidan was never late. She held her breath and didn’t let it go until he picked up.

  ‘Can’t make it today,’ he said.

  She felt like vomiting again.

  ‘Urgent work to do.’

  She bit her bottom lip. ‘But …’ Not showing up today was something Sam would have done.

  ‘A development in the Carver investigation.’

  ‘I thought it wasn’t your investigation.’ Nothing. ‘Fine. I’ll just make all the arrangements myself.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And I’ll catch the bus back, so you won’t have to pick me up,’ she said, hoping he’d tell her not to be ridiculous. ‘Two buses. One to Bairnsdale and then another one to Paynesville.’

  ‘Good.’

  Maybe Matt would like to come and help her? She was being unreasonable — finding Maree Carver’s killer was important. ‘See you tonight then,’ she said.

  He hung up on her and she frowned at her phone. He knows.

  The celebrant cleared his throat.

  ‘He’s a police officer.’ Brigitte held up her palms.

  The celebrant nodded. ‘I usually like to see some photos of your loved one so I have a clear image in my mind. Do you have any?’

  She was still staring at her phone. ‘What? Photos?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘No, not with me, sorry.’ She poured more coffee with a shaky hand — a splash of sherry in there might not be a bad idea.

  ‘Never mind. If you’re feeling comfortable, could we talk about Edward? Did you call him Grandpa?’

  ‘Papa.’

  He took out a spiral-bound notebook and a silver pen. ‘Would you like to start Papa’s life celebration with you or your mother coming forward in the chapel and lighting a Candle of Remembrance?’

  ‘I’ll do it.’ Joan being sober enough to stand up was the most she was hoping for. ‘And he wanted a graveside service.’

  ‘Sure you don’t want an indoor service?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Hope the weather’s all right, then.’ He made some notes and asked what Papa was like.

  How could she articulate that? She rubbed her face, rested her chin on her hands, and tried to think. Her head hurt. ‘Sorry, late night, couldn’t sleep.’

  The celebrant nodded, understanding; he could probably smell alcohol still on her.

  Papa hadn’t travelled, hadn’t had any hobbies. ‘Papa liked a drink and a smoke,’ she said. ‘And watching Fitzroy play footy, before they became the Brisbane Bears.’

  ‘Not bears.’

  What?

  ‘Lions. Fitzroy merged with the Brisbane Bears to become the Brisbane Lions.’

  She nodded and sipped her coffee. How different would it have been for Maree Carver’s family arranging her ‘life celebration’?

  ‘And how about some things about Papa’s place of birth, places of residence, work, important events?’

  It took them an hour or so to go through Papa’s early life in Fitzroy; his cleaning jobs; brushes with Squizzy Taylor; the war; meeting Nana at the dance.

  ‘Anything else you can think of?’ the celebrant said. ‘Special memories you have?’

  Brigitte told him about her old flat at the rear of Nana and Papa’s house. Papa had built it with his own hands from materials collected in the back laneways of Fitzroy. God knows how he’d hooked up the plumbing and power. A wonder he hadn’t electrocuted them. He’d wanted to keep Brigitte close and safe after the car accident.

  Once Joan and her sister had moved Papa into the home, they’d sold his house for close to a mil — a lot for a North-side house back in the early noughties. It was still keeping Joan in brandy, Chanel No. 5, and botox. Where Nana’s geraniums had once thrived, now stood four eggplant-coloured units, owned by people who had grown up in places like Templestowe and Doncaster.

  ‘And did Papa have any favourite songs?’ the celebrant asked.

  ‘I’m sorry, what was your name again?’

  ‘Kevin.’

  ‘He liked Bing Crosby and Glen Miller, Kevin.’ And there was this old folk song he used to sing — she was struggling to remember it. Something about a lady running off with a gypsy, but it escaped her. ‘But for his funeral, he always said he wanted “Rhinestone Cowboy”.’ She sang a couple of lines from the chorus.

  Kevin smiled. Brigitte smiled; her lips trembled into a grin, and then she burst into laughter. She laughed until tears ran down her face and she put her head in her hands on the table.

  Kevin sat quietly until she composed herself. He touched her hand gently, and she wanted to confess to him about Matt. He’d understand — he’d understand anything.

  ‘At the end of Papa’s life celebration, I’ll ask you to come forward and extinguish the Candle of Remembrance,’ he said.

  20

  Brigitte had been wrong. It was a train to Traralgon, then a bus to Bairnsdale, and then another bus to Paynesville.

  She’d slept on the train. And she quite liked the bus. The seats were upholstered in purple fabric with white swirls; the engine’s vibration buzzed comfortably through her body. It reminded her of primary-school excursions. She leaned her head back and recalled a trip to the zoo where an emu attacked her (because her lunchbox was red, her grade-two teacher had said). And another when she’d accidentally knocked over a display of apples at the Victoria Market and the stallholder had yelled at her. On the school bus, there had always been one kid with travel sickness who had to sit up the front, while the cool kids squashed into the back row. Brigitte had sat somewhere in between, about where she was now. The smells of Tupperware, bananas, and the hint of vomit cleaned but not forgotten. Childhood excitement — flutters of anticipation, the possibility of the destination. Back then, she’d pretended she was going on an adventure from which she’d never have to go home.

  The novelty of the bus wore off between Rosedale and Sale. She read a V/Line brochure, and then, for lack of anything else, opened Matt’s book to where she’d left off. The plot took a new direction in chapter five: Detective Robert Moore had a secret life. He was having an affair with a younger woman called Annaleah, had been for years. Of course — the names were all from Nick Cave songs! Flashback to Moore falling in love with beautiful, fragile Annaleah during his daily hospital visits to her while investigating the hit-and-run accident that had left her on life support when she was just nineteen. OK. Kind of flattering, and amusing. Brigitte stopped smirking when it was revealed that Annaleah had twins to Robert, but had kept the father’s identity a secret. That was just plain creepy. She swigged from her water bottle, trying to wash away the bad taste in her mouth.

  As the bus pulled into Bairnsdale station, the forensic pathologist attributed Mrs Deanna Moore’s cause of death to an incised wound to the neck, inflicted by a person or persons with a single-bladed, serrated knife. Oh my fucking God. She’d have to tell Aidan about this. No, she wouldn’t. But … No. It was crazy, and Aidan would get angry at any mention of Matt. Throat-slashing was a popular method of murdering characters in crime fiction. Just a funny coincidence. Coincidence. Not funny.

  ***

  The media circus continued along the Paynesville foreshore. For the final leg of the endless public-transport journey, Brigitte lugged her bag onto the ferry. A full quota of vehicles, including a furniture-removalist van, drove on. She wondered who was moving out, or in.

  Jeremy gave the walkway rails a wipe and then returned the cleaning rag and disinfectant spray to the bucket he had looped over his arm.

  Mike the butcher was the last to board on foot. At first, Brigitte didn’t recognise him without his bloodied apron; she didn’t even know he lived on the island. Jeremy gave Mike
something from the bucket and Mike handed him a plastic bag.

  Jeremy saw Brigitte watching them. ‘Bones for my dog,’ he said, holding out the bag for her to see. ‘Sorry to hear about your pop.’ He offered a downturned smile.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Jeremy moved on, and stopped for a word with the driver in a car up the front: a green Lexus she didn’t recognise from the island. She couldn’t see if there was a ferry pass stuck on the windscreen, but the rust-free undercarriage told her the car was just visiting. Jeremy leaned in and exchanged one of those complicated, sliding handshakes that look silly unless you’re young or an American basketball player. The driver wasn’t a gym buddy by the look of the scrawny arm flexed on the window frame.

  Two women in a red Corolla — Jenz on the number plate — had their windows down and were singing along with a Meat Loaf song blaring on the stereo. They looked like sisters, or mother and daughter. Brigitte twisted her mouth, went into the passenger saloon, and shut the door.

  Guilt swished in her gut as she sat on the bench seat and closed her eyes. Nothing happened, nothing happened, nothing happened. She heard Jeremy’s Doc Martens pound up the stairs to the control stand. The ferry cranked and Meat Loaf belted.

  She trudged up Sixth Avenue, feeling dusty and dirty, as though she’d been away for three years rather than three days. Apprehension mingled with anticipation.

  Home. No Territory in the driveway. Zippy came yelping and bounding at full pelt. He jumped against the broken gate and pushed it open. She let him knock her against the fence and slobber on her as she rubbed his back and patted his head.

  The screen door was off its rail, leaning against the back of the house. Inside, she threw her bag into the bedroom, flung her coat over the door, and headed towards the family sounds coming from the lounge room.

  Phoebe was drawing tattoos on Ella’s arm with a permanent marker. Finn was playing Need For Speed on the Xbox with Harry.

  ‘Gotcha again!’ Finn laughed, pressing buttons on his controller.

  ‘Bloody coppers,’ Harry said as police vehicles, sirens blaring, surrounded his red Bugatti Veyron.