Dead in the Water

by Tania Chandler

  Her phone rang. Carla Flanagan. Perfect.

  ‘Just following up the incident with your pet.’ Flanagan paused, waiting for Brigitte to speak.

  She cleared her throat. ‘Yes?’

  ‘The two boys have changed their story. They’re claiming somebody, who they’ve bought drugs from but whose name they conveniently don’t know, paid them to say they did it.’

  She gripped the phone tighter.

  ‘Are you all right, Brigitte?’

  ‘Are they lying?’

  ‘In these kinds of attacks, it’s likely that the offender will have slipped and cut themselves and left traces of their blood mixed with the victim’s. Aidan had me send a sample found on your dog to forensics in Melbourne.’

  He should have told her that. She pressed the phone harder against her ear.

  ‘Human DNA in the blood mixture didn’t match either of the boys, so it looks like they’re telling the truth.’

  ‘Whose blood was it, then?’ She held her breath.

  ‘Unfortunately, it was an unknown profile — no matches in the DNA database.’

  She exhaled through her nose.

  ‘How are you and Aidan going?’ Flanagan said.

  She didn’t know what to say.

  ‘There’s support available.’

  ‘Somebody killed my dog. Of course I’m upset, but I don’t need counselling.’

  ‘Actually, I was thinking more about Aidan.’

  I bet you were. ‘We’re fine.’

  A chilly silence. ‘All right. Well, let us know if we can help with anything further.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Oh, and Brigitte, if you feel like catching up for a coffee. I’m new to the district, too, I don’t know many people socially.’

  Throw in your car keys? Your lighter? ‘I’ll let you know.’

  She peeled her phone from her ear and stared at it shaking in her hand. She’d left her kids — after yelling at them for making her late for this dumb audition — hours away, where a murderer was running around free. She’d been more worried about dry skin, for fuck’s sake!

  She jumped when the phone buzzed. A text from Matt: Did you like the book, Annaleah?

  She reversed, scraped the side of the car on a pole, slammed the gear into ‘Drive’, and screamed out of the car park.

  40

  ‘Come on!’ Why weren’t the two cars in front going around the tram? It didn’t have its stop signs out. She beeped the horn. Still no movement, aside from the driver in the nearer car giving her the finger. She jerked the wheel and accelerated up the left-hand lane. Fucking parked cars.

  She was stuck; the line of Mercedes and Land Rovers wouldn’t let her back in. She phoned Aidan, drumming the fingers of her free hand on the steering wheel while she waited for him to answer.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he said.

  ‘Can you pick up the kids early? I don’t care what you say, I think the same person who killed Zippy killed Maree Carver, and it might be somebody we know.’

  ‘You’re being hysterical again.’

  ‘Don’t tell me I’m being hysterical!’ She put him on speaker, dropped the phone to her lap, and cut back into the first gap in the traffic. ‘Carla Flanagan just rang me.’

  ‘I know.’

  She raced past the tram at the next set of lights. What the fuck was the big yellow thing dawdling up the middle of the road, holding everybody up? Some kind of road-work machine? A tractor! She smacked the steering wheel.

  ‘Are you still there?’ he said.

  ‘I’m on my way home now, but won’t be there for a few hours.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right, the audition in Melbourne?’

  She overtook the tractor. A guy in denim overalls hung out the side, waving. The traffic was moving again, like a snail race, but at least moving. ‘You have to get the kids now!’

  ‘Don’t you yell at me!’

  The bile-coloured Volvo in front stopped, or stalled. ‘Fuuuck!’ Brigitte slammed into the car’s arse. Her head whipped back and she dropped the phone.

  Beep. The metallic taste of blood.

  ‘What’s going on, Brigitte?’ Aidan’s voice from the floor. ‘Brigitte?’

  She picked up the phone.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yeah, terrific,’ she said, wiping blood from her mouth. She checked in the rear-view mirror: she’d bitten her lip. Nothing serious. ‘Please get the kids.’

  ‘I’ll make sure they’re OK.’

  The Volvo driver was already out inspecting the tiny scratch on his back end — hands to his bald head, hands in the air, hands to his head, hands in the air. She thought about speeding off, but turned on the hazard lights and pulled over to the side, crunching broken light protectors and hopefully not too much else on the road. This had better not take long. She stepped out with blood trickling down her chin.

  The damage to the X-Trail looked minimal: a dent in the bumper, a broken headlight. It was roadworthy. Probably. Her back, she wasn’t so sure about.

  ‘You were on your phone,’ said baldy. He had a spot of lunch on the lapel of his nicely cut, navy suit.

  ‘No, I wasn’t.’

  ‘I saw you. You were talking on your phone.’

  ‘It was on speaker when I was driving, on my knee.’

  ‘You’re not allowed to rest the phone on any part of your body.’

  ‘What are you, a lawyer?’

  ‘No, I just know the rules.’

  ‘I don’t think you do. That law doesn’t come in until later this year.’

  ‘Are you calling me a liar?’

  ‘Can we please just exchange details and insurance companies? I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘Obviously. Look what you’ve done to my car.’ He waved his arms at his precious Volvo.

  ‘It’s just a scratch.’

  She left him making goldfish mouths, while she found a pen and paper in her glove box.

  ***

  Aidan and the kids were playing Monopoly on the lounge room coffee table when Brigitte dashed in. She hugged the kids. Aidan packed up his money and houses. The kids complained about wanting to continue the game.

  ‘Nah. That’s it. Phoebe wins.’

  ‘Phoebe always wins,’ Finn said. ‘Because she’s the bank and she cheats.’

  ‘No, she doesn’t. She’s just good at managing her money.’ Aidan stood and walked towards the back door.

  Brigitte followed him. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Probably Ray’s.’

  ‘You’re leaving us now?’

  ‘This doesn’t really change anything.’

  If she told him about Matt’s message, would he stay, or leave faster?

  ‘Anyway, you’ve got the gun, and you’ve got Harry. You don’t need me.’

  She shook her head, and, quieter, said, ‘You’re leaving us now.’

  ‘Brigitte, I can’t …’ He held up a hand.

  Jim, the fisherman, had said Don’t let it go any further, but as she hugged herself and watched her husband leave, she realised just how far it had gone. Now. Today.

  41

  ‘Wake up, Mummy.’ Ella was brandishing Purple Monkey in her face.

  ‘I’ll be out in a minute,’ Brigitte croaked.

  When Ella was gone, she felt for the gun down beside the mattress. No ammunition. What was she planning to do with it? Wave it around to scare Matt off? Beat him over the head with it? Maybe. Why didn’t she just tell the police about the book? Because they would laugh. And Aidan would go ballistic. It was crazy — there was no way Matt could have been involved with the murders of Maree Carver and Zippy. He wasn’t a drug dealer. Then again, how could he afford a nice, inner-city house on an author’s wage? She returned the gun to the safe. Just being ca
reful.

  She looked out the door, over the rim of her morning coffee mug. Through the triple-locked, ‘virtually-impenetrable-by-intruders’ security screen, she saw a little brown bird hippity-hop from the porch couch to the outside table, peck at some crumbs, and then fly to the eucalypts at the fence-line. The mound of dirt on Zippy’s grave was becoming level with the earth surrounding it. Time was folding before her eyes. It started to rain; she should bring in the washing on the clothesline. She sipped her coffee.

  Her phone rang. Aidan’s supervisor — he was an hour late for his shift.

  ‘Not at Ray Perry’s?’

  ‘No. And he’s not answering his mobile. Can you think of anywhere he might be?’

  She tasted blood again as she bit her split lip.

  ‘I’ll keep ringing around. If you see him, tell him to give me a call and get into the station ASAP.’ He spoke to somebody in the background and hung up.

  She tried Aidan’s number. It went straight to message bank.

  A raw pain twisted like a knife just below her sternum. It was cold out, but she didn’t feel it as she took her mobile onto the porch. In her call history, she found Carla Flanagan’s number. She glanced into the house, couldn’t see the kids. A little sob rose from the location of the knife-pain as she pressed ‘call’. Three rings and she hung up.

  The pain increased — maybe it was a heart attack. She had to go through with it, get it over. If you pull the Band-Aid off slowly, it hurts for a long time. She rang again. But if you rip it off quickly, it only hurts for —

  ‘Hello. This is Carla Flanagan’s phone.’

  She recognised his gravelly voice immediately, and failed to conceal the shock in her voice. ‘Ray!’ Rough-As-Guts Ray!

  ‘Yeah. Who’s this?’

  ‘Brigitte Serra.’

  ‘Carla’s busy. I’ll get her to ring you back.’

  ‘No. It’s nothing important.’ She hung up, stupidity weighing heavy upon her shoulders.

  From the edge of the porch, she saw she’d left the driver’s side window down a fraction on the X-trail. She went to close it.

  Rain gushed off the roof of the house; Aidan hadn’t cleared the gutters for a while. She’d have to learn how to do it herself.

  In her rear-view mirror, she saw a flash of white, and a grille, poking out from around the front corner of the house. Aidan’s car. She stepped out, pulling the tie of her dressing gown tighter around her waist, and walked up the driveway towards it.

  The windows were fogged up. She tapped on the passenger-side window. Nothing. She walked around the back of the car, glancing at the concealed exhaust — the feature Aidan had been most impressed with, for some reason that she hadn’t taken an interest in, when he first got the Territory.

  She knocked again, on the driver’s side. There was movement inside the car. She shielded her eyes and pressed her face against the glass. A click, and she jumped as all the windows glided down. A burst of music, which he killed quickly — it had sounded like Radiohead: they were falling apart to the same soundtrack. Stale air holding the smell of cigarettes and last night’s alcohol escaped.

  ‘What d’you want?’ He rubbed his unshaven face.

  ‘What are you doing out here?’

  ‘Sleeping. What does it look like?’

  ‘Why aren’t you answering your phone?’

  He shifted his weight, lifted his hips, pulled his phone from his back pocket, and threw it onto the passenger seat. ‘Dead.’

  ‘Your supervisor’s looking for you.’

  ‘My RDO.’ He adjusted the seat forward, and wiped the condensation off the windscreen with the back of his sleeve.

  ‘No, it’s not. You’ve got your roster mixed up.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Come in and have a shower.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘A coffee, then.’ She leaned on the window frame. Rain dripped from her hair onto her hands.

  He turned on the ignition and wipers — flicking more water over her — and smacked the gear lever into ‘Drive’. She jerked her hands off the car as he drove away.

  She trudged, in slow motion, back through the new gate, picked up the clothes basket from the porch and went across to the line. She took her time unpegging the washing in the heavy rain.

  ‘You’re all wet,’ Ella said as Brigitte walked inside, dressing gown dripping, hair curled into tendrils around her shoulders. ‘You’ll get sick.’

  ‘Germs make you sick, not the weather.’

  ‘But you always say to keep out of the rain or we’ll get a cold.’

  ‘I was wrong.’ She stood in front of the heater, drying her dressing gown, while hanging laundry over the clothes horse. The smell of clean washing wafted through the room.

  ***

  Finn couldn’t find his mouthguard. They were going to be late for footy, but Brigitte lacked the energy to yell from the porch to hurry up. Phoebe complained that she didn’t want to go to the match, it was boring; she wanted to go to a friend’s house instead.

  Brigitte hesitated, but figured she’d be safer at a friend’s house. ‘Whose house do you want to go to?’

  ‘Emily’s.’

  ‘Fine.’ She handed Phoebe her phone and said to ring Emily and Josh’s mum, to see if it was OK.

  ‘Can it be a sleepover?’

  ‘Great idea. If you help Ella into the car, I’ll go get your pyjamas and toothbrush.’

  Phoebe scuffed the toe of her pink Converse sneaker on the edge of the porch and cast Brigitte a hooded gaze. ‘Thanks, Mum.’ She seemed disappointed, as if she’d been hoping for a showdown.

  They’d lost; Finn hadn’t kicked a goal. Cold, wet, and muddy, they called into the supermarket on the way home for a few groceries and a treat to cheer them up. Brigitte let Finn throw a bag of potato chips and a couple of lollipops on top of the bread and milk in the basket.

  Weighing an anaemic tomato distastefully in her hand, Brigitte decided to buy tinned ones instead. She replaced the tomato, looked beyond the ‘specials’ sign, and saw Cam and Tate — draped around each other like two playful puppies. No fucking way. They giggled in front of the apples. She ducked behind the oranges until they’d left the fresh-produce section, feeling — to the exact gram — the entire weight of her stupidity. She snatched a leftover Easter bunny from the discount table and hurried the kids out.

  In her haste to leave, she avoided the supermarket liquor section, instead paying double the price for two bottles of wine at the pub.

  She looked up from her wine as Ella walked into the kitchen. ‘Why aren’t you watching the DVD with Finny? He’ll eat all the chips.’

  ‘For you.’ Ella held out Brigitte’s phone.

  She ached like a teenager for it to be Aidan. To tell him she was sorry and for him to say he was on his way home.

  ‘Koala on the phone,’ Ella said.

  She sighed. ‘Ella, I don’t feel like playing games now.’

  Ella looked up with Bambi eyes, and Brigitte took the phone, forcing a smile. ‘Hello, koala. How’s it hanging in the tree tonight?’

  ‘It’s Carla Flanagan.’ Flanagan paused, waiting for Brigitte to speak again.

  Ella scooted off.

  Brigitte cleared her throat. ‘Sorry. Yes?’

  ‘Is everything all right, Brigitte?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘My boyfriend,’ she paused, ‘Ray said you called earlier.’

  ‘Sorry. I dialled your number by accident.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Now? Nothing, just —’

  ‘Come across for dinner.’

  ‘Aidan’s still at work.’

  ‘Just you and the kids, then.’

  ‘Ray’s not there?’

  ‘No, he’s gone home.’

&n
bsp; ‘I don’t know —’

  ‘I’ll text you my address. See you soon.’

  42

  Flanagan opened her apartment door; a girl of about Ella’s age was holding her hand. Brigitte tried to hide her surprise.

  ‘This is Talia,’ Flanagan said.

  Finn and Ella barged into the apartment, and Brigitte apologised.

  Flanagan told Talia to go show them where the toys were. ‘My next-door neighbours are going through a rough patch, so I babysit Talia for them a bit.’

  Brigitte lowered her eyebrows as she stepped inside. ‘It smells nice in here,’ she said, inhaling a whiff of savoury baking mingled with aromatherapy oils.

  ‘It’s my new, ultrasonic vaporiser.’ She followed Flanagan’s gaze to the humidifier emanating mist and blue-LED light next to the fruit bowl on the sideboard. ‘It works on the vibration of water rather than heat to disperse the oils into the air.’

  Brigitte nodded. ‘From Sunny’s?’

  ‘Don’t let the tie-dye fool you, that woman could sell Windows 8 to Bill Gates.’

  Brigitte laughed. The humidifier was surrounded by a few framed photographs: family and friends; a younger Flanagan, shiny in a crisp-ironed uniform — police-academy graduation; and with a dark-haired, handsome man smiling but serious behind sunglasses.

  She slipped off her dry-cleaned coat and draped it over a kitchen chair. Flanagan’s apartment was clean and white, except for the dark wood furniture. A series of prints — birds and leaves — decorated the walls.

  ‘Would you like some wine?’ Flanagan said.

  ‘Well, it is Saturday night.’ She took a seat.

  Flanagan smiled as she placed two glasses and a bottle on the kitchen table. ‘I’ve got wholemeal vegetarian pizza for dinner.’

  Finn and Ella would never eat that. She looked through the door into the lounge room and saw them playing nicely with Talia; the biggest tub of Lego she’d ever seen was spilled across the rug.

  ‘How’re things?’ Flanagan sat at the table with an expression on her face that Brigitte couldn’t read. Nosey? Genuine concern?

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘If you ever need a babysitter, just let me know.’

  Because we’re going through a ‘rough patch’? She wished she’d stayed at home, drinking her own wine and eating her chocolate bunny.