‘Oh my God.’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘It was a false positive. The luminol reacted to an enzyme in the leaves. But it fluoresced for a coupla minutes. Very freaky.’
‘Wow.’ Her limbs felt heavy, as though full of a viscous substance. Liquid velvet. ‘There wasn’t any linseed oil at the crime scene, was there?’
‘Why would you ask that?’
She shrugged, inhaled smoke deeply, and exhaled.
‘There’s always linseed oil down there,’ he said. ‘In boat polish.’
And massage oil. She thought about rubbing some over his body as she leaned against him; he felt so warm, smelled so good. The moon swam.
When they’d finished smoking, she tilted her head back, reached up, and pulled his face to hers. An upside-down kiss. The sensation of falling. She turned and climbed astride his thighs, draping the blanket over them both. She kissed him, right-way up.
‘What the hell are you wearing?’ he said as he slid his arms around her.
His whiskers scratched her face as they kissed more urgently. The blanket fell to the ground. She stopped for air and said, ‘Have I ever told you you look like Jeff Buckley, Orlando Bloom, and that guy from Mad Men, all rolled into one?’
He laughed and tangled his fingers in her hair.
‘You’re my light, Aidan. Seriously. The kids are my earth, but you are my light.’
‘You are very stoned.’
‘So are you.’ More kisses. ‘Dance with me, Aid. Put some music on your phone, and dance with me.’ She stood and tried to drag him to his feet, but he pulled her back onto him, the crotch of her onesie sticky-wet.
‘It’s too late for dancing,’ he said as he led her to the bedroom.
She dreamed again of an angelfish. There was still water left in the plastic bag, there was still time. She looked for Aidan to help her, but couldn’t find him. The water drained away, her fish fell to pieces, and in her head she heard the voices of children weeping.
She woke, naked, tangled in the doona, the taste of Aidan in her mouth, the smell of his sweat and cologne on her shoulders, but he was gone.
29
‘I don’t think there’s enough beer in the batter, Ryan,’ Joan said.
‘Fuck off, Mum, I’m cooking the fish.’ Ryan dropped fillets into the spitting hot oil.
‘Bloody men, think you know everything.’ Joan leaned against the sink. ‘Why isn’t Aidan out here helping?’
‘He’s having a rest. A late night,’ Brigitte said as she took a seat at the breakfast bar.
Ryan threw her a raised-eyebrow look.
‘Remember Amy Collins?’ Joan said.
Brigitte shook her head blankly.
‘Yes, you do. From school. She’s not Collins anymore. She’s remarried to a CEO of some big company. They just bought a gorgeous house in Middle Park.’
Brigitte poured more champagne into her flute, feeling as though she was stuck in some dysfunctional-family sitcom.
‘I will never understand why we always have to have fish,’ Joan said.
‘Because it’s Good Friday. Nana and Papa did it, and that’s what we do. It’s called tradition,’ Ryan said.
‘We’re not bloody Catholic. Speaking of whom, I’m very disappointed Lorenzo and Grace aren’t coming today.’
‘Really?’ Brigitte laughed through her nose. ‘After last year?’ she said under her breath. They’d had Good Friday at Ryan and Rosie’s house. Rosie and Joan had argued about something Brigitte couldn’t even remember. The ensuing screaming match had spilled out into the front garden, so loud the neighbours had called the police. She still had a clear image in her head of Rosie pushing Joan into the rose bushes, and the look of horror on Grace’s face.
Joan started humming along with the Paul Kelly song playing.
‘Go away, Mum.’ Ryan flicked a tea towel at her. ‘And skip this, it’s a Christmas song.’
‘It sounds like he’s singing about being in jail.’
‘Yes, but at Christmas time.’
‘Does anybody know any Easter songs? Kids?’
The kids looked up at Joan from the table with glum looks and shook their heads.
‘What’s wrong with kids? Not happy unless they’re staring at their iThingys. It affects socialisation, you know. One needs to learn how to interact with the plumber who fixes their tap as easily as an A-list celebrity at a gala event.’
Brigitte rolled her eyes and asked Finn to go see if Harry would like to join them for lunch.
Harry came back with Finn, and Brigitte introduced him to Joan. He was holding a bottle of wine awkwardly. ‘Wasn’t sure if you’d be drinking today, being a religious holiday and that.’
Ryan laughed.
‘Harry, on Good Friday we drink only champagne. It’s tradition, isn’t it, Ryan?’ Joan popped another cork.
‘Yes, Mum.’ Ryan had finished the second batch of fish and was starting on the chips.
‘Although you can’t call it champagne anymore unless it comes from the Champagne region of France.’
The champagne, or whatever you called it, frothed over the top of the bottle, and Joan caught it with her mouth before pouring a flute for Harry.
She slipped an arm around his waist. ‘Come and look at this batter, Harry. Don’t you think it needs more beer?’
Harry, helpless, looked to Brigitte for guidance, but she had none, just a shrug and an apologetic smile.
She finished her drink and left him floundering while she went to see what Aidan was up to. She found him propped up against pillows on their bed, listening to music through headphones. She sat beside him and put a hand on his knee.
He pulled off the headphones.
‘I missed you this morning.’ She ran her hand up his thigh. ‘What are you listening to?’
‘Beck.’
‘Cheery.’
‘As opposed to Nick Cave?’
‘You coming out?’
‘Soon.’
‘Can’t keep making excuses for you. Unless …’ She walked her fingers up higher.
‘What do you want?’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘But really, it’s Good Friday. I just want you to be with me. That’s all.’ She smiled.
‘Stop it, Brigitte.’ He pushed her hand away.
She lost the smile.
‘You know we were just pretending, last night.’ He put the headphones back on and closed his eyes.
They clinked their glasses at the table. ‘Happy Easter,’ Joan said. ‘First one without Eddie. Here’s to you, wherever you are, Dad.’
Ryan sniffled, and served the fish and chips.
Brigitte felt as though she was still stoned from last night, dissociated, watching from far away.
‘Elbows off the table, kids,’ Joan said, smoothing a paper napkin over her lap. ‘Just a small piece for me, please, and not too many chips.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re on a diet,’ Ryan said.
‘Your diet is the food you eat every day,’ Finn said. ‘We’re learning nutrition at school.’
‘No, Finn, a diet is the food you don’t eat so you can stay nice and slim.’ Joan sat up straighter, pulled her shoulders back, and looked at Phoebe, who had a plate full of chips smothered in tomato sauce in front of her. ‘Perhaps Phoebe needs to think about one soon, now that she’s growing up.’
Brigitte glared at Joan. Phoebe pushed aside some of her chips.
‘Amy’s lost a lot of weight. We’re Facebook friends. She was bigger than you, Brigitte.’
Brigitte found the piece of fish in her mouth hard to swallow. She washed it down with a big gulp of champagne.
Harry passed Joan the tomato sauce.
Joan shuddered and held up her hand, making a face like he’d offered her poison. She went to pour a
nother drink, but the bottle was empty. ‘Uh-oh. Who shot the bartender?’
Harry laughed. Most people found Joan amusing on first meeting.
‘Could you be a darling, Harry, and get another bottle out of the fridge.’
Harry did as he was told. A good man, Joan’s nod of approval said.
Joan widened her eyes, took a deep breath, and sighed, pretending to be full after only a few mouthfuls of food. ‘What’s Aidan doing?’ she said.
Brigitte shrugged a shoulder and looked at her plate.
‘Aidan!’ Joan yelled.
Brigitte winced.
‘Stop being such an ignoramus, come out here and join the rest of us!’
Brigitte pushed her plate away and sculled her drink.
‘What’s a igmoranus, Nana?’ Ella asked.
‘What most men are, darling. And I’ve told you kids, it’s perfectly all right to call me Joan.’ She touched the tip of Ella’s nose, wiggled it, and Ella giggled.
The kids had been excused after Joan had made them say ‘May I leave the table?’, when Aidan came out looking creased and tired, his gym bag over his shoulder.
‘Nice of you to grace us with your presence.’ Joan held up the bottle and a packet of cigarettes. ‘Drink? Smoke?’
‘Come sit down, and I’ll get you some lunch,’ Brigitte said without looking at him.
Joan shook her head in exaggerated disgust at Brigitte’s subservience. Her expression said: All my advice wasted. All that bra burning, out the window. But not so, eating disorders, it appeared.
‘Save some for me. I’m not really hungry,’ Aidan said. ‘Might go get some fresh air.’ He walked towards the back door.
Joan’s jaw dropped. ‘How rude,’ she said after he’d gone. ‘Maybe choose something different for your next marriage, Brigitte. Your cops all seem to come a little unhinged.’
‘You’d know.’ Brigitte slammed her glass down, and went out for some fresh air, too.
Jeremy was standing, hands on hips, at the ferry shelter with a crowd of about twenty people. Brigitte went down to see what was going on. Jeremy told her that the ferry had a broken chain and the passengers were waiting for the water taxi to take them across.
‘Did you get the dog biscuits?’ Brigitte said.
Jeremy glanced at the passengers.
‘I left a bag of dog biscuits on your doorstep.’
‘Yes. Thanks.’
‘How much longer?’ one of the passengers called.
‘Not long,’ Jeremy called back. ‘Impatient bastards,’ he said under his breath as he turned and smiled at Brigitte. ‘Soon as the water taxi shows up, I’ll be off for the rest of the day. So, if you feel like coming over for an Easter drink, you know where I am.’ He pushed his red sunglasses onto his head.
‘Maybe I will,’ she said, looking up into his green eyes.
Maybe I will, she thought as she strode towards the boardwalk, past the first jetty and the tree that must have been the one that glowed with luminol (or had she dreamed that story?).
She stopped when she saw Aidan sitting on the bench seat down at Montague Point. We were just pretending, last night. He was writing something in what appeared to be a notebook. Unusual, but nothing about him surprised her these days.
She stretched and clenched her fingers a couple of times, and then turned and headed back towards the house, pretending she hadn’t seen him put his head into his hands. She couldn’t tell if the sound she heard was the wind or sobbing.
30
Unafraid of the water, she waded into the sea to release her angelfish, knowing it was already dead. Something pushed her from behind, and she went under. Click. Her body was a rock, sinking.
Click. She forced open her eyes. The room was dark aside from a small, round source of light near the wall. Somebody was standing there. She blinked a few times as her vision adjusted. Aidan. He was in front of the open safe, holding a torch. In his other hand, he held the pistol to his face.
She scrambled to sit up, drew her knees to her chest, banging her elbow against the bedhead. He turned at the sound, lowering the gun to his side.
‘What are you doing?’ Her voice was a hoarse whisper, her heart pounding in her throat.
‘Shh,’ he said. ‘Just checking the gun.’
She rubbed her eyes and pulled the doona up to her chin. The red digits on the clock radio swam into focus: 1.50am.
‘Go back to sleep.’ He returned the pistol to its case, clicked it shut, and placed it in the safe. He reached for the box of ammunition on top of the wardrobe, looked inside with the torch light, replaced it, and then walked out of the room.
She’d thought the night had been silent, but now she heard the ticking of the clock, the humming of the fridge, and the whines and groans of house-settling.
At 3.00am, she was woken again by Aidan, whimpering in his sleep on the couch. At 3.15, she heard him padding through the rooms. It sounded like he inspected all the locks. At 4.03, he checked on the kids and then got a glass of water in the kitchen. The creak of the couch, sighs, tosses and turns. At some stage, she was sure he looked in on her, she felt his presence looming in the darkness. And at 5.00 he took a piss in the toilet.
31
Brigitte worked in silence all morning. She was sure her workmates knew something was wrong at home, but they left her alone.
At lunchtime, she leaned back in her chair and stretched, thinking about a cup of tea. Cam came over holding a camera box, and asked how her Easter was.
‘Ate too much chocolate.’
‘Me, too.’ He patted his paunch. ‘You going down the street for lunch?’
She shook her head. ‘Not hungry.’
‘You need to get out of the office for a bit.’ He placed the box on her desk.
‘What’s that for?’
He raised his eyebrows, but resisted saying something smart. ‘Camera needs to be repaired. Run it over to Marty’s Cameras in Bairnsdale for me?’
He must have been sick of her moping around the studio. ‘Nobody can do it in Traralgon?’
‘Nope. Only one good camera bloke knows what he’s doing round here. Instructions of what needs to be done are in the box. Take the Caprice.’
‘Really?’ She brightened and stood. It was the first time he’d let her drive one of the studio cars.
‘Take Tate, too.’
She groaned. He threw her a set of car keys. She missed, and retrieved them from the floor.
‘It’s heavy,’ she said as she picked up the box.
‘Yes. Be careful with it. And the car, too.’
‘Yes, Cam.’ She walked towards the door.
‘Hey, you OK?’
She nodded, biting the insides of her cheeks.
‘We’ve just landed a big account. Drinks after work tonight?’
‘Can’t. Have to pick up the kids.’
The smell of Tate’s deodorant filled the car. Lynx Dumb and Cocksure? Synthetic. Brigitte sneezed and ran her window down a bit.
‘Have a look in the glove box,’ she said as they pulled out of the studio car park. ‘Cam always leaves lollies in there.’
Tate had a look and found a bag of gummi bears. She turned on the radio: ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’.
‘Do you think I look like him?’ Tate said. ‘Kurt Cobain. Somebody told me I looked a bit like him.’
Brigitte choked on a gummi bear. She’d spent a lot of time — and money on therapy — trying not to think about Kurt Cobain. She cut off his ragged, bittersweet voice with the only decent CD she could find.
‘What’s this?’
Was he taking the piss? She glanced at him; he wasn’t taking the piss.
‘Radiohead.’
‘The new car’s got Bluetooth.’
‘Cam would never let me drive that one.’
‘You can use Spotify in the car.’
She had no idea what he was talking about now.
The stretch of road between Traralgon and Sale was the most boring in the world. Nothing but trees and dead grass, and the occasional pâté of road kill. Locals heading in the opposite direction raised index fingers off their steering wheels in greeting, and she returned the salute. Speed was limited to between forty and sixty for much of the way due to road works. They’d been working on the roads there since Brigitte had moved to the area. Cement pipes lay next to bulldozers digging up yellow earth that looked like the clay facemask from the farmers’ market. Maybe that’s where Sunny sourced her raw materials? She yawned.
‘Did you tell Aidan about Dead in the Water?’
That woke her up. ‘No.’
‘Did you finish it?’
‘Didn’t need to. I guessed the ending.’
‘I thought it was a bit like The Postman Always Rings Twice.’
She gripped the wheel tighter.
‘You knew him, didn’t you?’
‘James M. Cain?’
He giggled and tutted. ‘Matt Elery.’
‘Long time ago.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Don’t really remember.’
They drove in silence for a few kilometres.
‘Awful about Maree Carver. I’ve never known anybody that’s died before, apart from my grandpa,’ Tate said. ‘Especially not murdered. Have you?’
She concentrated on the road.
‘How does Aidan cope?’
She thought about Aidan checking the gun, holding it to his face. ‘I don’t know, Tate.’
‘Suppose they learn to switch it off?’
She nodded, and held out her hand for more gummi bears.
‘Have you always lived around here?’ he said.
‘No, from Melbourne. You?’
‘Traralgon. Where did you learn to write?’
‘A writing and publishing degree.’
‘In the city?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wow. Do you ever write fiction?’
‘No.’ It was hard to tell if the marks on the road were powerline shadows or burn-out skids.
Dead in the Water Page 14