Dead in the Water

by Tania Chandler

  ‘I love kids,’ Flanagan said. ‘Where’s Phoebe?’

  ‘Sleepover at a friend’s house.’ Brigitte tired of being polite, waiting for Flanagan to pour the wine; she did it herself.

  ‘She’s a great kid. I love her silly jokes.’

  Aidan must have taken her into work at some stage.

  ‘And her collections: shells, buttons, bugs.’

  Brigitte sipped her wine and nodded, pretending to know what Flanagan was talking about.

  ‘I bet she’ll grow up to be an artist, or a museum curator. Or a stand-up comedian.’ Flanagan laughed.

  Brigitte looked into her glass. How had this happened — a stranger seeming to know more about her own daughter than she did? ‘She can be very stubborn at times. Persistent.’

  ‘Maybe she’ll be a cop, then.’

  ‘Hope not.’

  ‘Not an easy job, no. But neither’s three kids.’

  She shrugged. ‘I can’t imagine being alone.’

  The oven dinged, and Flanagan got up to take out the pizza. Brigitte’s stomach growled. She shifted in her chair; the ache in her back had been escalating since the crash with the Volvo. She gulped the wine.

  ‘I haven’t always been on my own.’ Flanagan cut up the pizza, slid four slices onto a plate, and took the rest into the lounge room for the kids, asking over her shoulder if it was OK to whack on a DVD for them.

  Brigitte nodded.

  ‘Dig in,’ Flanagan said when she returned.

  A tomato slice burnt Brigitte’s sore lip.

  ‘Careful, it’s hot.’

  She fanned her mouth with her hand, and made small talk. ‘Why’d you become a cop?’

  ‘It’s sounds corny, but I wanted to help people. I was studying psychology, but my boyfriend at the time was a cop, and I thought it sounded like a good job, a more effective way to make a difference.’ She sipped her wine. ‘I did the negotiator course, but there hasn’t been much call for critical-incident response around here.’ She laughed.

  ‘Didn’t work out?’ Brigitte asked between mouthfuls. ‘The ex, I mean, not the job.’

  ‘He was Special Operations Group.’

  Brigitte nodded, no further explanation required, but Flanagan went on. ‘Saw some pretty shitty stuff. Siege hostage situations, bomb-response incidents. A lot of traumatic crime scenes, deaths.’

  What happened to small talk? She picked an olive off her pizza.

  Flanagan drank quickly. On her second glass, her cheeks were rosy, and she continued talking about her ex. On call 24/7. Even when he wasn’t working, he started to always be on the lookout for danger. Checking the locks obsessively, every noise in the middle of the night was an attack; every piece of rubbish on the ground an IED. He couldn’t sleep, had nightmares, flashbacks, problems with short-term memory.

  Flanagan looked at the plate; she’d barely touched the pizza. ‘He started drinking heavily.’

  Brigitte frowned and put down her glass.

  ‘He would lose his temper constantly, over things that never bothered him before. Things we used to joke about weren’t funny anymore. He never hit me or anything, but there were a few times I had to leave because I didn’t know what would happen if I’d stayed.’ She took a big drink. ‘Towards the end, when we weren’t fighting, we’d barely talk. It was like we lived in different worlds: he couldn’t tell me about his, and he wasn’t interested in mine.’ She shrugged a shoulder.

  ‘Depression?’

  ‘Worse. PTSD.’

  Brigitte nodded. A useless doctor had once tried to misdiagnose her with that.

  ‘An occupational hazard unfortunately.’

  ‘Did he get help?’

  She shook her head. ‘His wounds were invisible. Thought he could hide them, deal with it on his own. There’s a stigma that prevents officers from seeking help for mental-health issues.’

  ‘Sounds like you know a lot about it.’

  ‘I do now.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He suicided.’

  Fuck. Brigitte pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘I’m so sorry, Carla.’

  ‘A week before it happened, I found him curled up on our bed, crying like a baby. He hadn’t heard me come into the room and I didn’t know what to do, so I walked away from him.’ She drained her glass. ‘Then the day before it, he was back to his old self — calm and positive. I couldn’t understand …’

  Brigitte was staring at a scratch on the table; she heard the glug of Carla pouring the last of the wine into their glasses.

  ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have burdened you with all that.’

  ‘It’s OK. You obviously needed to talk about it.’ Brigitte looked up and, for a moment, saw vulnerability, pain. But in the time it took her to decide whether or not to give Carla a hug — poof — it disappeared behind the smoky blue of her eyes.

  ‘And now I’ve finally started seeing somebody again.’ Carla’s smile would never be as shiny as it was at the police academy or with the serious man behind the sunglasses.

  ‘Ray,’ Brigitte said, struggling to imagine them together.

  ‘He’s a bit old-school cop, but he’s a good guy.’

  Talia called out for a drink of water, and Carla took three glasses in to the kids.

  When she came back, she reverted to small talk and asked if Brigitte had read any good books lately.

  ‘I’m reading Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  Brigitte cleared her throat. Speaking of books. ‘Do the police have any idea who murdered Maree Carver yet?’

  ‘No. Say we’d be the last to know down here, anyway.’

  ‘Do you think it was a local?’

  ‘Steve Williams reckons a purely opportunistic attack by somebody not linked to the victim. Somebody just passing through town, probably didn’t even know who Maree was.’

  ‘Somebody from the city?’

  ‘There’s been a shitload of information from the public, as you can imagine. Mostly unhelpful. I’m sure Williams’ll sort it all out.’ A note of sarcasm in her voice.

  ‘Could they have mistaken her for somebody else? I mean, it was dark, and maybe …’

  ‘If it was me, I’d be looking for a mentally disturbed fan. Somebody obsessed.’ She looked directly at Brigitte. ‘Anything you want to tell me?’

  She blinked and shook her head.

  ‘Something about your ex’s novel?’

  Oh my God, the police know.

  Carla shook her head. ‘Matt Elery was questioned, and he provided a DNA sample which excluded him as a suspect — in both investigations.’

  ‘But there’s a dog killed in a similar way to Zippy in his book. And the person who killed the dog killed the detective’s wife and …’ Her voice was too high. ‘I was worried,’ she looked at her hands, ‘that maybe it had something to do with what happened to Maree Carver.’

  Carla nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve heard this rumour.’

  Tate! ‘Are you positive it couldn’t have been Matt?’

  Carla frowned — or was it a smirk? — and placed her empty glass on the table. ‘I don’t know how you got such a ridiculous idea into your head.’

  ‘Please don’t tell Aidan I mentioned this.’

  Carla felt in the pockets of the bluey jacket draped over the back of her chair. ‘Mind if I pop out for a smoke?’ She took a cigarette and her gold lighter out onto the front porch.

  Brigitte floated with relief as she finished the last of her wine and watched Carla’s back: she stood tall and straight with feet shoulder-width apart. Steely smoke swirled from the porch light into the darkness.

  When Brigitte said it was time to go, Finn and Ella complained that they wanted to stay for the end of the movie. Carla adopted cop-mode, switched off the television, ej
ected the DVD, and said they could borrow it. ‘It’s time for Talia to go home to bed, too.’

  Rain glittered the lawn. Carla told them to wait a sec while she gathered her phone and pulled on the bluey jacket, which was a size or two too big for her.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Brigitte said.

  ‘Walking you to the ferry.’

  ‘We’ll be right.’

  Carla gave her the same look as Aidan sometimes did — used to. Brow furrowed slightly, jaw set: not taking no for an answer; a waste of breath arguing. Did they teach that at the police academy?

  There was no answer when Carla knocked at Talia’s apartment two door’s down. Talia looked up with dewy, accepting eyes. Carla said she could sleep at her place again and they’d make pancakes for breakfast.

  The rain stopped, but it was freezing, and they huddled in their coats as they walked along The Esplanade, a new lightness in Brigitte’s step. It was karaoke night and The Old Pub was jumping. Brigitte held Ella’s hand tighter and hunched her shoulders against the raised voices and swearing of the young men smoking out the front.

  ‘Evening, boys,’ Carla said as they passed.

  The bombast quieted to murmurs and sniggers.

  The rest of the street was deserted. Brigitte and Carla both looked at the Mariner’s Cove motel, but said nothing.

  The ferry’s lights swam on the water.

  ‘Text Aidan to meet you at the other side,’ Carla said.

  Brigitte pulled out her phone, ready to pretend.

  ‘Or your next-door neighbour.’

  Brigitte nodded, and texted Harry.

  ‘And send me one when you get home.’

  An awkward moment. Should they hug? Kiss cheeks? Shake hands? ‘Thanks for dinner, Carla.’

  ‘No worries.’

  The ramp was wet, and Brigitte slipped a bit as she stepped onto the ferry. Her cheeks burned from alcohol and the cold. She thought she saw Jeremy smirk and sniff the air. He placed his hands on the passenger rail and looked at the water, moonlight a golden mist on his hair.

  ‘Where’s mini-me?’ he said.

  ‘Phoebe? Sleepover at a friend’s.’

  Jeremy nodded. ‘Your cute cop-friend know if they’ve got anybody for the murder yet?’

  Brigitte frowned at the insolence in his voice, and shook her head. She told the kids to go sit in the passenger saloon.

  ‘Taking a while.’ Jeremy looked up, his eyes glossy like green olives. He blinked and apologised for the other night, his tone returning to normal.

  She looked at him blankly.

  ‘Not a good time to turn up on your doorstep.’

  Oh, the burnt-fish night.

  He turned and climbed the stairs. Carla was still standing at the ferry shelter, one hand holding Talia’s, the other in her bluey coat pocket.

  The ferry’s wail sounded particularly forlorn tonight. Ella fell asleep in Brigitte’s arms during the crossing. ‘Nice pizza,’ Finn said. ‘Better than the bought ones. You should get the recipe, Mum.’

  Harry was waiting for them on the island. She could just make out Carla and Talia still watching from the mainland.

  In the light from the telephone box, Brigitte saw there was a graze on Harry’s face, and a bandage around his left hand. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Council meeting about the ferry fees. Things got a bit heated.’

  She was bemused — couldn’t imagine Harry in any kind of confrontation, least of all physical. ‘You should put some arnica on your face.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ There was a sharp edge to his voice.

  Neither of them mentioned the burnt-fish night; they walked in uncomfortable silence along Seventh Parade, past the park, and across the grass strip at the cul-de-sac, Ella’s weight killing Brigitte’s back.

  ‘Night,’ Harry mumbled outside his house. The TV was glowing through his front curtain.

  Once Brigitte had tucked Ella into bed, she texted Carla.

  Finn asked where Aidan was.

  ‘I don’t know. Brush your teeth and go to bed, sweetie. It’s late.’

  When Finn had gone, she turned to the bottle she’d opened earlier. She took a glass of it into the bedroom with her to find the chocolate bunny she’d hidden from the kids.

  One wardrobe door and some drawers were open. Most of Aidan’s clothes were gone. Dead in the Water was on the bed, ripped to pieces. Brigitte spilt some wine as she placed her glass on the bedside table.

  She lay down among the shreds. Her teeth chattered, but she didn’t pull up the covers. And she didn’t switch off the light, or get changed. She couldn’t move.

  43

  The kids didn’t notice Brigitte standing in the lounge-room doorway.

  ‘When is Daddy coming home?’ Ella was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a pencil in her hand, her head slumped forward, the ends of her hair skimming her colouring book.

  ‘Dunno.’ Phoebe sprawled out on the couch, licking a raspberry icy pole. ‘He might not.’

  How many times did Brigitte have to tell them: no food in the lounge room?

  ‘Maybe they’ll get a divorce.’

  Ella put down her pencil and looked up. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘When two people argue and don’t love each other anymore and they live in different houses.’ Phoebe’s lips were stained from the icy pole; it looked like she was wearing lipstick. ‘It’s Mum’s fault. She did something bad to Aidan.’

  ‘What bad thing?’ Ella said.

  Phoebe shrugged.

  ‘Crashed the car?’

  ‘She’s just mean.’

  ‘No, she’s not,’ Finn said. He was sitting at the other end of the couch, fiddling with his shoelaces. ‘Mum just gets bored easily. Like she so wanted to move down here, but now it’s not good enough. And her perfect writing job, now she wants to be an actor like Uncle Ryan. Maybe she just got bored of Aidan?’

  ‘And bored of us. I want to go with Aidan,’ Phoebe said.

  ‘You can’t,’ Finn said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he’s not your real dad.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’m staying with Mum,’ Finn said. Phoebe’s pink Converse sneakers touched him; he pushed them away, and she kicked him. ‘Stop it! I’m telling Mum.’

  Phoebe slapped a hand to her cheek and made a silly face that reminded Brigitte of The Scream painting. A drip of icy pole fell onto the couch. Ella threw her colouring book and pencils aside and started crying.

  Brigitte cleared her throat.

  Finn and Phoebe snapped up their heads and looked at her with owl eyes; Ella continued crying.

  ‘No food in the lounge room, please, Phoebe.’

  ‘You said icy poles aren’t food.’

  Brigitte gritted her teeth.

  ‘We’re allowed to eat in the lounge room at Emily’s house.’

  ‘Well, I’m not Emily’s mum.’

  ‘No, I wish you were.’ Phoebe stood up, and bumped Brigitte as she huffed past towards her room.

  ‘Don’t you do that to me!’ Brigitte yelled. ‘You’re not too big for a smack, you know.’

  ‘I’ll tell Aidan. You can go to jail for hitting kids,’ she yelled back over her shoulder.

  Brigitte clenched her fists. No food in your bedroom either — she didn’t say it. She kneeled to comfort Ella, but received a kick to the chest from a little purple boot. She raised her hand, but stopped herself. Ella’s crying turned into screaming. Finn walked out of the room, towards the kitchen.

  ‘No more snacks before dinner!’ Brigitte shouted over Ella’s screaming. Why the fuck had she said that? She was mean.

  She wanted to lie on the floor and lash out like Ella. She put her head in her hands, and whispered, ‘Stop. Please, just stop.’

 
***

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. Brigitte hacked vegetables with a knife in need of sharpening. Fuck you, Aidan.

  Maybe she and the kids should go back to Melbourne. They’d moved to the island because it was meant to be safer. And Aidan was meant to be happier.

  They could share Ryan’s house. Or sell the property on the island, buy somewhere cheap a bit out of the city. Or rent a place. They could get a cat. She wiped her eyes.

  ‘OK, Mummy?’ Ella asked.

  ‘Yes, sweetie. The onion’s just hurting my eyes.’

  Ella was playing around the backdoor. There were still some of Zippy’s muddy footprints on the glass that Brigitte hadn’t gotten around to cleaning. Finn was on the Xbox, and Phoebe was probably sulking in her room.

  Brigitte scraped the vegetables into a pan to make ‘Autumn vegetable and tomato soup’ that the kids weren’t going to eat. And it was just ‘Autumn vegetable soup’, because she hadn’t bought tomatoes, thanks to Tate and Cam. She poured a glass of wine; it eased the tension in her shoulders and unclenched her jaw after just a few sips.

  Ella was chattering and hiding-and-seeking with imaginary friends. So beautiful. So innocent. She heard Joan’s voice in her head: Stop talking to yourself, Brigitte. You’re scaring me. There’s nothing there.

  Brigitte had started motherhood with one clear intention: I will never be like my mother. She’d promised herself that in the NICU, in a cloudy haze of euphoria and drugs. When the doctor removed the gavage tubes from the twins’ stomachs and said they were ready to mouth-feed, she’d refused to give in to formula milk like Joan had. Breastfeeding makes your boobs sag. Swollen with mastitis, feverish, she’d continued with needles of pain piercing her nipples.

  Ella’s birth had been a planned C-section, not quite as dramatic, but the memory was hazier. She tried to picture Aidan holding Ella just after she was born, but couldn’t. She’d lost a lot of blood; her blood pressure had dropped dangerously low. The nurses wanted to take Ella to the nursery so Brigitte could rest, but she’d refused to be separated like she had been from the twins.

  What had it been like for Joan when Brigitte was a baby? Had she ever, even momentarily, been swept away by that wave of complete, unconditional love? The only thing Brigitte knew for sure was that her birth had summoned the end of Joan’s serious acting career. It had been manageable with one child: prop them up in the corner of the casting agency during screen tests, and somebody on set, or backstage, was always happy to hold a baby for a while. She’d heard Joan tell the story many times at pubs and parties during her childhood: With two, tragically, it was impossible. You make your bed, you lie in it.