She pouted.
‘It’s OK,’ Jeremy said. ‘I’ll get mine and Brigitte’s.’
‘I’ll get them,’ Cam said. ‘Last one, Brig.’
‘In that case, I’d like Sex on the Beach, please.’
‘Fucken poof.’ A guy in a Jimmy Barnes T-shirt and blue jeans bumped past Cam. He stumbled a step forward, bristled, and drew in his breath.
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Kumiko reached across and patted his arm.
When Cam came back from the bar, Kumiko stood and announced that she was leaving. She thanked Cam for dinner and pulled her coat on.
‘I’ll walk you to your car,’ Cam said, his face clouding over.
‘Watch yourself, Brig.’ Kumiko kissed her goodbye on the cheek.
Brigitte nodded, made a show of looking around the pub wide-eyed, and sipped her sickly, orange-coloured cocktail.
An icy wind swirled into the bar as Cam and Kumiko exited through the front door.
Conversation was impossible as Cold Sizzle bashed out their opening number. Brigitte leaned her chin on a hand. Her head felt heavy; she looked down at the drops of spilt wine.
‘Staying for the band?’ Jeremy shouted over the music when Cam sat back at the table.
Cam yelled that it wasn’t really his cup of tea. Brigitte said she’d stay. Cam shot her a fatherly look. The band wasn’t that bad; they were sounding better with every sip of Sex on the Beach. She banged her glass down too hard, but the tabletop didn’t break — just as she’d suspected: extra strong, drunk-proof.
She walked through the dingy band-room to the bathroom. The guy in the Jimmy Barnes T-shirt was standing next to a bald man; they were both nodding their heads to the music and spilling beer on their hands. Jimmy Barnes guy looked at her and winked. She wished Aidan could see and be jealous.
In the cubicle, she stumbled and knocked her shoulder against the wall. She sat on the toilet for a while with her head in her hands, the walls spinning around her. ‘Aidan,’ she whispered, and sniffed. ‘Aidan, Aidan, my light.’
She sighed, hiccupped, and felt for the toilet paper. Fuck — there was none left. She lifted her head, and cut her thumb on the edge of the dispenser as she fought it for the toilet-roll core to use instead of paper.
When she came out, two young women with long, tennis-player legs and short dresses were standing at the mirror. They applied make-up as they discussed some cute blond guy they both wanted to fuck. Probably Tate. They were blocking access to the basins.
‘Excuse me,’ Brigitte said. Without acknowledging her, one of the women moved over slightly so Brigitte could wash her hands. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bloodshot. She splashed cold water on her face, smoothed her hair, stood up straight, and sucked in her stomach. She looked tired, old. She looked like Joan. What the fuck was she doing here?
On the way back to the bar, Jimmy Barnes guy blocked the doorway. She smiled and asked him to let her go through.
‘Have to giss a kiss first.’
Maybe she didn’t look as bad as she’d thought. She laughed, swayed a little, stepped forward, thinking he’d move out of the way. But he didn’t.
‘So you gunna giss a kiss, or what?’ He put his hands on either side of the doorway and leaned down towards her, licking his lips. She stopped smiling. His face was shiny with perspiration, his eyes glassy.
This kind of thing hadn’t happened to her for a long time, and she didn’t know what to do. She tried to look around him, over the bar, at her friends.
‘Think you’re too good for me?’
‘What’s going on, mate?’ Tate was suddenly by her side.
‘Nuthin’ to do with you,’ Jimmy Barnes guy said. He stood taller, thrusting his chest forward like a rooster.
‘Just let her go through,’ Tate said.
Jimmy Barnes guy stepped aside. He grabbed Brigitte on the bum as she hurried past. Tate said something she couldn’t make out over the music. But she heard the crack and the gasp that followed. She turned to see Tate against the wall, holding his nose.
Jeremy strode into the band-room, arms penguin-like by his sides, eyes gleaming. He looked bigger than normal, chest puffed out. Without a word, he right-hooked Jimmy Barnes guy. Brigitte sucked in her breath and cupped her hands over her mouth as Jimmy Barnes guy’s head snapped to the side; he wobbled and crashed into the wall. He came back at Jeremy with an awkward punch to the left cheek. Jeremy twisted Jimmy Barnes guy’s arm. The bald mate came over to join in, and it was on. Neither of them were any match for Jeremy. Cold Sizzle played ‘You Got Nothing I Want’.
Security were onto the fighting men like flies at a barbecue. Brigitte ducked her head and scuttled past them towards Tate, who was sitting on the floor. She snatched a handful of paper napkins off the bar, kneeled down, and helped him hold them against his bloody nose. God, she hoped it wasn’t broken.
‘I’m sorry, Tate.’
‘Not your fault.’
The carpet was sticky and held the smell of a million spilled drinks.
‘Time to go home.’ Cam stood over them, holding their coats. He threw Brigitte’s at her; she missed and picked it up off the floor. He held out a hand to help Tate up.
Outside, the cold nipped her nose and cheeks, and there was ice on the windscreens of the cars parked along the deserted street. Her ears were ringing.
‘First bar fight I’ve seen for a while,’ Cam said as he twirled his scarf around his neck, his breath a twist of steam in the air.
‘Me, too,’ said Tate through his bloody napkins.
‘And, God save me,’ Cam looked at the starless sky, ‘the last, I hope.’ His shiny shoes clicked on the footpath. ‘Must have been a long time since two men fought over you, Brig?’
She ignored him as they walked along. Alcohol was spinning in her head and whirling in her stomach.
‘Four men.’ Tate hiccupped.
Brigitte looked down the street for her car; she couldn’t remember where she’d parked it. She needed to lean against something.
‘I’ll take you both home.’ Cam’s car blipped across the road as he unlocked it with the keyless remote. ‘Have to come back and get your cars in the morning.’
Fuck. What would Aidan say?
‘Wait up!’ Jeremy strode, arms stuck to his sides, up the street towards them.
Maybe he walked like that because he’d been in an accident?
Cam made a low, growling noise in the back of his throat. Behind Jeremy, the brown-brick hotel was glowing with golden light from its arched doorways and windows. Cold Sizzle was playing ‘Flame Trees’.
‘I’ll give you a lift home, Brig,’ Jeremy said. His left cheek was red and swollen, a bruise starting to form.
Cam frowned.
‘It’s all right,’ Jeremy said. ‘I’ve only had three light beers.’
Brigitte leaned against a rubbish bin and looked at the pockmarks of chewing gum staining the footpath.
‘You OK with that?’ Cam asked her.
She nodded, and gave him a kiss goodnight. It made sense — as much sense as anything could make at the time. It would be a four-hour drive to the island and back for Cam. Tate hugged her, swaying, bleeding on her coat, singing about trees and weary drivers. Cam yelled at him to hurry up as he headed across the road to his car.
Brigitte concentrated hard on walking straight beside Jeremy — past the local MP’s office, the Metron Homes Sales Centre, the mobile-phone shop. As they crossed the road, she could still hear Tate singing, which was comforting, somehow.
34
Jeremy’s red ute was parked in front of the primary school. Brigitte put her hands into her pockets and rested against the iron fence while he unlocked the passenger-side door. The interior light didn’t come on automatically; he reached up and switched it by hand. He scooped up the things from the seat: clo
thes and some cleaning products. A scarf or cloth, embossed with Lang Hardware’s logo, hung over the side of a bucket — he must buy his rags from there, too. Must remember to tell Harry. He threw them in the back, under the tarp cover.
The interior smelled like burnt plastic and the ghost of air freshener; the seat was freezing. After a few protests, the ute started. The stereo lit up and played ‘When a Man Loves a Woman’. It sounded like Cold Sizzle.
‘You like this music?’ Jeremy asked.
‘Not really.’
He turned it off. ‘What do you like?’
‘Tom Waits.’ Her words sounded slurry, so she didn’t discuss her music preferences any further.
‘Just need to warm her up a bit first,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. He made a face like he was shaving as he checked out his grazed cheek in the rear-view mirror.
Brigitte pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders. Jeremy turned on the heater; it blew dusty air in her face. In her side mirror, she saw a group of men stumble out of the pub and look up and down the street. Nausea roiled inside her.
Jeremy flicked on the headlights and pulled out, too quickly. The tyres squealed; the ute jerked and her head hit the headrest as he made a U-turn. He took the first exit at the roundabout heading out of town, towards the highway.
She leaned back and closed her eyes, but everything started to spin. She opened her eyes and looked at the line where the windscreen met the dash — if she kept her head still and just stared at that, she was OK. Like focusing on the horizon the time she’d been seasick on the Spirit of Tasmania.
Jeremy asked if she was all right. She mumbled and gave a tiny nod, without looking away from the dashboard horizon. She jumped when he ran her window down a few centimetres. The cold air on her face was the best thing she’d ever felt; she gulped mouthfuls of it.
After they’d been driving for a while, she felt brave enough to try closing her eyes again. Everything stayed relatively still.
‘I know what you’re going through,’ Jeremy said. ‘I was engaged, but it didn’t work out.’
The headlights of oncoming vehicles flashed on the insides of her eyelids.
‘After my sister died, I got depressed. It’s hard to lose somebody you love. I lost the plot for a while, and my fiancée couldn’t cope. Can’t blame her.’
She wasn’t sure if she was dreaming when Jeremy made a phone call, asking Scott to hold the last ferry.
White lines rushed under the car; lights caught distorted faces in the tree trunks. She and Tate were sitting side by side on the first jetty. A dolphin spraying blood from its blowhole dove across a full moon. Tate pushed her into the water.
She woke with a start, her mouth filled with saliva. She swallowed and swallowed, sure she was going to puke all over Jeremy’s car, but she kept it down. They were in Paynesville, thank God. She reached down for the water bottle and mints in her bag.
The Esplanade was deserted. The ferry was waiting — red light flashing on the island-end. In the distance, Scott was a grey, lanky figure on the upper-deck walkway. Jeremy drove past the Bateau House, past the Mariner’s Cove motel, and took the U-turn for the ferry waiting-bay.
There were no other vehicles or passengers on board. Jeremy stared straight ahead as the ferry crossed the strait, his hands resting on the steering wheel. His knuckles were red; there was a Band-Aid on the webbing between the thumb and index finger of his right hand. Over the wind and the ferry’s cranking, Brigitte heard wisps of country music: ‘A Good Year for the Roses’.
At the other side, Scott waved as they drove off onto the island. It was dark, just a few house lights and the glow of the public phone box at the park. Brigitte glanced in her side mirror. She doesn’t make the return trip, no. Was the ferry’s light one of the last things Maree Carver ever saw?
Jeremy drove up Seventh Parade instead of Fourth Avenue. Brigitte frowned at the side of his face.
‘A short cut,’ he said.
After six months, she still didn’t know the short cuts on the island.
She saw torch light before the tall, lean figure rounded the corner up ahead and walked towards the ute.
‘Your welcoming party,’ Jeremy said, squinting at the light in his eyes. He slowed to a stop beside the park.
She felt like a naughty teenager. Sprung. Aidan opened the passenger side door. Brigitte thanked Jeremy for the lift as she stumbled out, feeling pale and fragile.
Aidan stood with his arms crossed, feet apart. He glowered at her shoulder; she looked down at Tate’s blood on her coat. Jeremy drove away, crunching gravel on the roadside.
‘Why the fuck weren’t you answering your phone?’ Aidan’s eyes were black pools in the phone-box light. ‘I thought something had happened to you!’
She turned and staggered towards home, bumping into trees. He stomped after her.
The porch light was on. The doors slid open, and Harry stepped out. ‘Brig,’ he said out the side of his mouth as he headed to his house. He patted Aidan on the back as he passed.
Brigitte rushed inside.
‘Come back here. We need to talk!’ Aidan yelled.
She ran to the bathroom, and vomited red wine and Sex on the Beach in the toilet, and on her hair and shoes.
35
Aidan boomed at her from the kitchen to get up and take the kids to school. His emergency-response voice? She covered her head with the pillow, and groaned when Ella jumped on her. ‘Mummy’s not feeling very well,’ Brigitte said. ‘Could you please get my dressing gown and slippers?’
She heard Ella rip the dressing gown off the back of the door, felt her throw it on the bed.
She sat up slowly. She’d slept in her clothes; bra straps twisted and biting into her shoulders. The pillow was make-up-smudged, and her coat lay like a dead rabbit stretched out on the floor. She slid her feet into the slippers. Her mouth tasted like kitty litter; chunks of vomit were caught between the back of her throat and nose. She reached for the tissues on the bedside table, blew her nose, felt dizzy, and had to lie down again. Aidan yelled louder. Crockery and cutlery clashed, and Ella told him that Mummy wasn’t feeling well.
‘There’s nothing wrong with Mummy. She just thinks she’s twenty again. But she’s not.’
‘Are you twenty, Dad?’
‘Bit older. Now go and get dressed.’
‘Are you sixty-seven?’
‘Get a wriggle on.’
Brigitte made it to the bathroom, shut the door, dry-retched over the toilet, and then lay on the cold tiles for a while before running the shower. Too washed-out to stand, she sat on the shower floor and shampooed vomit from her hair. Stupid, Brigitte. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why don’t you ever learn? She hugged her knees to her chest. Her stomach ached as if she’d done a hundred sit-ups. The warm water running over her back was a small comfort. Until Aidan turned on the washing machine, hot cycle.
Aidan ended a call and pocketed his phone when she walked into the kitchen. He was wearing his flannelette shirt again. RDO? She’d lost track of his roster. And she hadn’t looked at him properly for a while. He looked good — fit from boxing, hair not tamed by product.
She caught her reflection on the stainless-steel surface of the toaster: she didn’t look good. She poured a mug of coffee — Fuck, they were out of milk — and slumped at the breakfast bar, leaning her head on her hand. ‘You wanted to talk?’
‘Not anymore.’ He finished his coffee, rinsed his mug, and placed it in the dishwasher. His phone rang, and he took it out on the porch, sliding the doors shut behind him.
I wonder who? She dropped a Berocca into a glass of water and stared at the fizzy orange tablet ricocheting from side to side like an out-of-control spaceship.
Aidan came back inside with extra worry lines on his forehead. ‘Coupla teenage boys just walked into the station and confessed to Zippy�
�s killing.’
She sat up straight.
‘Off their heads on ice, by the sound of it.’
‘Bastards.’ Anger mingled with relief. Thank God she hadn’t told him about chapter fifteen. ‘What will happen to them?’
‘Be charged with animal cruelty, in the Children’s Court.’
‘And?’
‘A fine, probation.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘It’s too early to know if there’s any link.’ He headed to the door.
‘Can you take the twins to school?’
‘Where’s your car?’
‘Traralgon.’
‘Fuck!’
She winced as he yanked his keys from the hook.
‘Maybe Jeremy could drive you to get it?’ He walked towards the lounge room.
‘Where are you going?’
He turned in the doorway. ‘To get the twins. What’d you think?’
‘And then?’ Fishing again? Something more strenuous maybe?
‘There’s a flat coming up for rent in the block where Ray lives. Thought I might go check it out.’
Bang: her heart crashed against her chest wall. He went to wrangle the twins.
As he walked back through the kitchen, she opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, but she couldn’t speak, the words were stuck. He snatched his wallet from the table and shoved it into his back jeans pocket as he left. The twins dawdled after him, kissing Brigitte on the way past, school bags bumping against their backs.
She looked across at the wedding portrait hanging on the wall. Aidan drop-dead gorgeous in a charcoal suit, Brigitte in a petrol-blue halter-neck dress. Behind them, the concrete-and-copper rotunda, and elm trees in the Edinburgh Gardens, North Fitzroy. She was pregnant with Ella, but you couldn’t tell — only in the glow on her face, which she’d always suspected the photographer had photoshopped. There was only one print of that portrait. They’d have to get it copied. Or just cut it in half! She sniffed. No, she’d keep it; he’d, no doubt, get a new one.
The portrait was surrounded by snapshots: the kids and Zippy; family past; a black-and-white shot of a young, handsome Papa fishing from his old tin boat on Lake King. Next to the photos hung Aidan’s Rothko Four Darks in Red print: four lozenge shapes in different shades of red, from crimson at the bottom to liver-brown at the top. At least she wouldn’t have to look at that anymore. She’d never told him that she didn’t like it. It reminded her of bloodstains. She wiped her eyes and sipped her black coffee.
Dead in the Water Page 16