Dead in the Water

by Tania Chandler

  She called out to see if Ella was OK. Yes, she was watching a Wiggles DVD. Brigitte went back to bed.

  Some of Zippy’s wiry hairs still peppered the doona cover. She rang around and organised a lift home from school for the twins.

  There was an email from Tate on her phone:

  Hey Brig

  Last night was fun (aside from the fight). Nose is fine, just a bit bruised, and Cam giving me shit about it. I noticed your car still in the street. Want me to come over after work and drive you to it?

  T x

  How could he have gone to work? Maybe he hadn’t drunk as much as she had. And he is quite a bit younger, she reminded herself. She replied, saying it was too far to drive; she’d organise some other way to get her car. She signed off with B and an x, and then deleted the x before pressing send.

  It’s not too far.

  Let me know when you’re ready to read my novel manuscript.

  T x

  She couldn’t remember agreeing to read his manuscript. She tossed her phone aside and buried her face in the pillow. She’d have to change the sheets soon, and then the smells, the last traces, of Aidan and Zippy would be washed away.

  36

  Brigitte stood in the twins’ doorway with an armful of folded laundry, shaking her head. Phoebe’s things were spread from one end of the room to the other. She yelled for Phoebe to come and clean up the mess. Of course, she didn’t. Brigitte climbed the bunk ladder and dumped the clean clothes on Phoebe’s unmade bed and called again. No answer. She stomped through the house, looking for her — probably hiding somewhere with iPod earphones stuck in her ears.

  Outside, Finn was chasing Ella around the backyard with a fake spider. Brigitte asked if they’d seen their sister. They ignored her and kept running and screaming, so she yelled. They stopped and shook their heads.

  ‘Phoebe’s OK,’ Finn said.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Dunno.’ He went back to playing with Ella. The weird twin thing — usually it was the other way around: Phoebe knowing uncannily what Finn was up to, especially when it was no good.

  Brigitte went back through the house. Phoebe wasn’t there.

  ‘Phoebe!’ She felt her hangover ebbing away. Her skin prickled: the moment of panic before the kid jumps out from behind the clothing rack, just when you think you’ve lost them at the shopping centre. Here I am! She checked all the rooms again, glancing at the safe in her bedroom.

  She yelled louder, as the Here I am! moment slipped away. Ice water.

  She grabbed her phone, flew out the door, telling Finn to look after Ella for a minute — she was just going to see if Phoebe was at the park.

  A group of tourists were pointing cameras at the koala in the manna gum out front of the house. She strode past them and up the road, her breath coming in short painful bursts. Don’t overreact. Don’t panic. Don’t panic! The kid always jumps out from behind the clothing rack. She started to jog as she reached the grass strip at the cul-de-sac. The painful breaths became little sobs as she crossed the road towards the park.

  The boys who had murdered Zippy and Maree Carver had been caught: there was nothing to worry about. Phoebe would be playing with one of her friends, or catching bugs in the grass. Phoebe, please jump from behind the rack.

  A young, tanned couple were cooking sausages on the barbecue. A red-haired father was snapping photos of his children at the tourist sign — their ginger heads poking through the face-holes above illustrated koalas’ bodies. Two pre-school-aged boys were climbing on the play equipment, and a woman was pushing a toddler on the swing.

  The light suddenly seemed too bright; it hurt Brigitte’s eyes. She turned around and around, scanning the playground, the foreshore. Everything seemed to slow down, and the sound of children’s laughter grew faint in her ears. Oh, my Phoebe. If you jump from behind the rack now, I promise I’ll never be angry with you again. Phoebe wasn’t going to jump out. Something had happened to her because Brigitte was a bad mother who drank too much and neglected her family — just like Joan.

  She leaned against the information board and phoned Aidan, her hands shaking.

  37

  She looked across at the ferry docking as she waited for Aidan to answer his phone. Phoebe was at the front of the passenger line, holding a plastic shopping bag. I am going to fucking kill you. She shoved her phone into her pocket and stormed across the road towards the ferry without looking. A car beeped at her.

  A smile lit Phoebe’s face when she saw her, and then dropped away.

  Brigitte grabbed Phoebe’s shoulder — too tightly, fingers digging into flesh — as she alighted. Phoebe flinched. Brigitte thought of Joan, hurrying her along when she was a child, smiling sweetly, holding her little hand, but too tightly — crushing it with the rings on her fingers.

  ‘Don’t you ever do that to me again,’ Brigitte hissed through clenched teeth.

  ‘We were out of milk. I just went across to get some for you.’ Phoebe’s bottom lip wobbled. ‘I thought you’d be happy.’

  ‘You don’t go by yourself.’

  Jeremy penguined over. ‘She’s all right. Kept my eye on her.’ He winked. ‘How’d you pull up this morning?’

  ‘Fine,’ Brigitte said as she dragged Phoebe away by the arm.

  Ella skipped up the driveway towards them — past Steve Williams’s car, Brigitte’s car with a parking ticket stuck to the windscreen, and Aidan’s car. Phoebe cried and struggled against Brigitte, who wouldn’t let go of her arm. ‘Mummy’s hurting me,’ Phoebe said. ‘Run, Ella, before she hurts you, too.’

  Brigitte let go of Phoebe. Ella turned and ran away from them.

  Finn was out the back, kicking the footy with Harry. Aidan and Steve were opening beers on the porch. Aidan had his cap pulled down low. Steve still looked sunburnt, or maybe he was just always red. Homicide must have sent him back to interview the bastards who killed Zippy.

  ‘Your pocket’s been dialling me again,’ Aidan said, holding up his phone. He shook his head at Steve, dismissing Brigitte with a smirk.

  She glared at him and followed Phoebe into the house.

  ‘I hate you!’ Phoebe stomped to her bedroom, and slammed the door.

  Brigitte gritted her teeth; she couldn’t deal with this, was about to lose control. She clenched her fists and called Aidan. He didn’t come. She called him again, louder — yelled. He slunk into the kitchen, closing the glass door behind him. He swayed as he walked across the room, took a swig from his stubby, placed it on the breakfast bar, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘What?’

  Brigitte leaned her hands on the breakfast bar and lowered her head. ‘I need some help with Phoebe.’

  ‘She’s your daughter. Not mine.’

  She lifted her head slowly.

  He hiccupped, removed his cap, and pushed the hair off his face, glassy eyes challenging her. He was more than drunk. Wasted. She’d never seen him like this.

  He stumbled as he sat on a stool. He knocked his stubby, spilt some beer, and righted it. ‘Are you even sure,’ he said slowly, slurring his words, ‘that the twins are Sam’s?’

  She raised her hand to slap his face. He grabbed her wrist and pushed her arm down. She’d known violent men; Aidan wasn’t one, but she felt the anger in his grip and pulled away.

  As she walked out, she looked back at him — head lowered, slumped against the breakfast bar, the bumps of his spine visible through his shirt.

  She rushed out through the yard, ignoring everybody. Harry was there — the kids would be OK. She wouldn’t be long, just needed some time out.

  The ferry was docking on the mainland. Brigitte slowed her pace as she walked past the luminol tree.

  She stopped at the first jetty, and wavered on the shore for a few minutes before taking one step onto the parched boards. A missed heartbeat. The
jetty, or the Paynesville shoreline, seemed to sway.

  She held onto a post and pulled off her shoes, remembering the texture of the old, worn wood underfoot. That wood had been there forever — getting sloughed away, becoming smoother. On bright days fishing with Papa. On the dark night Maree Carver was murdered a few metres away. And on that moonlit night she’d stood there barefoot, without fear, nineteen years ago. The boards weren’t as smooth as they were in her memory; they were rough and splintered in parts.

  Slowly, carefully, she walked to the end of the jetty. She sat and dangled her legs over the side, wriggling her toes — feet above, but not quite in, the water. A breeze scooped up a handful of lake and threw it at her; she licked salt off her upper lip.

  How long does it take to drown? It would be hard if you could swim; you’d have to be held down, or caught under the jetty. Do your eyes stay open? Would your hair float around your face, like in paintings of Ophelia? No — somehow she knew that corpses in water always lie face down. At least at first, before the abdomen swells with gas and the body flips. Aidan must have told her that.

  She dipped a toe in.

  ‘G’day, love.’

  She snapped up her head and looked around. The voice coming from the old fisherman limping up the jetty had sounded like Papa’s. ‘Everything all right?’ he said.

  She wiped her eyes and nodded. The fisherman put down his rod, pulled an industrial white bucket from within an identical bucket, and upended them both side by side. He sat on one and patted the other. Brigitte’s knee cracked and her spine creaked as she did as the fisherman suggested. The rim of the bucket-base dug into the backs of her thighs.

  ‘Beautiful, eh?’ He admired the lakes. She’d been too busy wondering what was beneath to notice the apricot-light streaks on top.

  A mob of seagulls across on the mainland squawked and squabbled over a chip thrown by a little boy. The voices of the couple sitting at the picnic table near the Bateau House shooing them away were equally as shrill as the gulls’. Brigitte couldn’t see their faces, but she knew they’d be scowling as they scolded their child for feeding the birds.

  The fisherman shook his head. ‘They’ll feel guilty after. Little tacker’s only having a bit of fun. The dull moments are the ones we wish away, but’d give our eyeteeth for once they’re gone.’ He produced a flask from the pocket of his faded-khaki overalls, took a swig, and then held it out to her.

  She hesitated, didn’t want to put her lips to where his had touched, but felt it would be rude to decline the offer. Whisky. Warm in her stomach. The fisherman looked like Papa, too, but with a white beard.

  ‘You married to that tall copper.’ It wasn’t a question.

  She frowned. Had he been watching them?

  He smiled, one tooth missing. ‘Been here sixty-eight years, love. Know who everybody is.’

  She felt guilty for not recognising him, for her lack of attentiveness. She handed back the flask.

  ‘Jim.’

  ‘Brigitte.’

  ‘I know.’ He took a pouch of tobacco and a packet of papers from his other pocket. ‘Want a smoke?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Can you rig up a shrimp on me line while I roll one, then?’ He took no notice of the disgust on her face as he handed her the rod and produced a little transparent, blue-tinged creature from a lunch container. ‘See that black circle, that’s his brain, don’t want to stick the hook through there.’ He pointed with a nicotine-stained finger. ‘Hook him through the horn bit on top of his head. Nice and slow. He won’t feel it.’

  She grimaced as she twisted and crunched the hook through.

  The hook can’t go back, it has to go forwards.

  ‘There you go, piece a cake,’ Jim said.

  She couldn’t believe he’d made her do that. She rubbed her fingers together and sniffed them.

  ‘Ta,’ he said with a rollie stuck to his bottom lip as he took the rod from her. ‘Dreadful business with Chef Maree.’ He inhaled and exhaled smoke. ‘I was the one found her.’

  Brigitte didn’t know what to say. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Nah, glad I was there, that she didn’t have to stay in the water for any longer. Poor bugger. Makes ya realise how precious life is.’

  Dusk was in the chill of the air and the calm of the lakes. The apricot sky and water were turning golden. The man across at the picnic table on the mainland scooped up the child and carried him, flailing, to their car. The woman trudged behind, arms crossed.

  ‘Used to be married once,’ Jim said as he cast out his line.

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘Nah.’

  She was hoping he’d hand her the flask again, but he didn’t, and she picked up her shoes and said she’d better be getting home.

  ‘It’s very simple,’ Jim said. ‘Do ya love him?’

  She paused. A memory of the full moon was interrupted by Carla Flanagan touching Aidan’s shoulder. ‘He’s leaving me.’

  Jim held up an index finger. ‘Do ya love him?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Do something, then. Don’t let it go any further,’ he said without looking away from the water.

  ‘He doesn’t listen to me anymore.’ Why the fuck was she spilling this to a stranger?

  ‘Take him out somewhere. If it was me, I’d make a special dinner.’

  As she walked barefoot along the boardwalk, she glanced over her shoulder. Jim had a bite already. She saw the flash of a knife, ready to cut the line.

  When she got home, Harry and the kids were watching TV.

  ‘Where’s Aid?’

  ‘Gone to the pub with Steve,’ Harry said.

  ‘Why aren’t you wearing shoes, Mum?’ Ella said.

  38

  Don’t let it go any further.

  After school drop-off, Brigitte took Ella to the new supermarket to buy ingredients for a special dinner. The Supa IGA had opened in competition with FoodWorks three years ago, but the locals still called it the new supermarket. She bought fish fingers for the kids (a veggie burger for Phoebe) to eat while watching a movie. For her and Aidan, she bought ingredients for a ‘romantic dinner for two’ recipe she’d found on the internet.

  After the supermarket, they stopped at Joe’s to buy a lobster. Joe said he had a couple of crays out the back. She showed him the Lobster with lemon rice and herbs recipe, and he assured her that crayfish would work fine.

  ‘Sure you don’t want to make a nice fish stew or something a bit less complicated?’ he said.

  She shook her head. It had to be really special.

  Joe went out the back and returned with a little blue esky. He explained to her that a crayfish’s nervous system doesn’t sense pain, so it’s not hurting when you place it in boiling water.

  ‘It’s alive?’ Brigitte made a face.

  Ella stood on tiptoes, trying to see over the counter.

  Joe nodded and continued. ‘Crayfish don’t have vocal cords. When you cook them, what you hear’s not screaming — it’s just the sound of steam escaping from under the shell.’

  Brigitte went cold and clammy. But the recipe said it’s much easier than you think — even for a novice cook — to prepare a flawless romantic lobster dinner for two.

  She felt queasy again when Joe told her the price. She paid with her credit card and took the little esky.

  They crossed the road to the ferry shelter. The sun was out and a gentle breeze rippled the water. The boats were a Monet painting on the mirror-surface.

  Brigitte pulled Ella by the hand, trying to slip quickly into the passenger saloon without Jeremy noticing them.

  Too slow. Jeremy leaned over the rail and asked what was in the esky. He still had a Band-Aid on his hand, and the bruise on his cheek had faded to yellow.

  ‘Clay fish,’ Ella said. ‘Mummy’s making a special, mantic
dinner so Daddy will love her again.’

  Jeremy raised his eyebrows, and Brigitte felt her face blush.

  ‘How’s the security system going?’ Jeremy asked.

  Brigitte frowned.

  ‘My mate Pete from EG Security said he did some work over at your place.’

  ‘It’s had its moments.’

  Brigitte and Ella sat on the bench seat, holding hands. Brigitte thought she heard crunching sounds from within the esky.

  ‘Good luck with the dinner, and all that,’ Jeremy called as they alighted on the island.

  At home, they put away the groceries and made room in the fridge for the crayfish.

  ‘Aren’t we gunna cook him now?’ Ella said.

  ‘No.’ The recipe said to cook it close to serving time. ‘We’ll do it after school pick-up. Now, we’re going to clean the house and make everything look nice.’

  Aidan always did the vacuuming because Brigitte said it hurt her back. It took a while to work out how to change the bag. She was vacuuming the lounge room when she heard Ella scream. She hit the stop button and rushed to the kitchen.

  Ella was standing — eyes wide, hands over mouth — in front of the open fridge. ‘Clay fish got out,’ she said between her fingers.

  The esky was over-turned, and the crayfish was inching across the floor.

  Brigitte swore and Ella started crying.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Brigitte said as she threw a tea towel over the escapee. Ella screamed again. Brigitte screamed, too, as it moved when she scooped it up. She shoved it back into the esky, clicked the lid on, and blew the hair off her face.

  ‘Sorry, Mummy,’ Ella said, sobbing. ‘I just wanted to see what he looked like.’