* * *
I turn this over in my mind as I unpack in my bedroom, avoiding the front office where Luisa is walking Dad through some kind of complicated online booking system. Apparently she’s the new office manager and was the one who convinced Dad to change the motel’s name and install the water fountain. For some reason it’s all making me uncomfortable, and that’s before we address why Luisa was here at one in the morning when Mason broke the window.
My phone chimes with a new message from Sabeen.
Are you here yet?
I let her know I am, glancing out my bedroom window at the Nolans’ house next door. Next door is actually a little way up the hill, a grassy field and a tangle of acacia trees separating the Nolans’ property from our motel. It’s close enough that Sabeen and I spent our entire childhood in each other’s pockets. It’s also close enough that occasionally, late at night, I catch glimpses of her older brother Raf ’s silhouette moving across the glow of his bedroom window.
I’m working tonight, Sabeen adds. Come down for pizza.
My first instinct is to say no. As much as I’d love to see my best friend and her parents, I’m not sure how I’m going to approach Raf. In the last three months our texts and messages have been patchy, and the only subject we’ve touched on is finding Henry. We haven’t talked about that night in January, or what we told Sergeant Doherty the next morning. It’s as though what happened at the bush hut has been packed away and forgotten. Simply erased.
But since I can’t think of a convincing reason to turn Sabeen down, I reply with a smiley face and tell her I’ll be there at six-thirty. She’ll only grill me if I make excuses, and I struggle to keep things from Sabeen. As soon as I see her face I’m like a Catholic in a confession booth, spilling it all and begging for forgiveness. It’s amazing I’ve managed to avoid fessing up about where I was on the night of that storm.
I lay low for an hour until it’s time to head down to the pizzeria, the last gasp of daylight savings encouraging me to walk instead of waiting for a ride from Dad. The hangover from January’s storm is still present in boarded-up windows and hail-damaged cars, in random woodpiles dotted here and there from decades-old trees being chainsawed where they lay. An extreme weather event, meteorologists called it, an effect of our changing climate, as if The Shallows hadn’t already suffered enough with drought and bushfires in the last couple of years. When I spot the string of coloured lightbulbs along the shopfront of The Shallows Pizzeria I’m reminded that things could have been much worse. The Nolans’ family business made it through that wild storm intact. Those blinking lights are a reminder this battling town still has a pulse.
As I pass Shallow Vintage Wares on the town’s main street, I peer inside one of the windows. The shop is full to bursting with old armchairs and table lamps, a labyrinth of tall bookcases heaving with yellowed paperbacks and faded crockery. As kids we’d slip in here and hide under the tables, flicking through comic books and racing wind-up robots down the passageways. Tom’s grandpa, affectionately known to us all as Uncle Bernie, would enlist us to clean the silver and brass trinkets, then treat us all to milkshakes at the bakery across the street.
I nudge open the door and a small bell jingles. I know Tom will be here, organising or tinkering or shifting things around. He told me he was coming home for Easter, and university holidays started today. As if on cue, a lanky figure leans out from behind a filing cabinet. Tom nudges his glasses to the bridge of his nose and squints.
‘Whoa, I almost didn’t recognise you,’ he says. ‘I thought you were a customer.’
Glancing around at the empty aisles, I realise that’s the one thing this shop doesn’t appear to have.
‘Howdy, stranger.’ I grin. ‘Long time no see.’
Tom and I first met here when I was six years old, while my mum was hunting for bedside tables. I wandered to the back of the store where the second-hand toys and children’s books were crammed into a poky corner, and found Tom curled up in a rocking chair reading Harry Potter. He was a watchful kid, two years older than me with pale skin and a thick crop of curly brown hair. As he explained the inner workings of Hogwarts to me, I decided he was the smartest boy I’d ever met.
Tom closes the filing cabinet now and lopes over to me, wiping his hands against his chequered shirt. ‘A week ago you still had hair.’
‘This is the part where you tell me you like it.’
‘It looks awesome,’ he says, holding out his arms for a hug. Just like last week, my arms easily link around his torso with room to spare.
‘You’ve got to let Sally and Liv give you a good feed while you’re here,’ I tell him. ‘You’re fading away since you started living on campus.’
I’m paranoid that everyone living in student accommodation exists on packet soups and two-minute noodles. Tom’s only a couple of months into his Economics degree, and Canberra’s too far away for us to check in and make sure he’s taking care of himself. We caught up for burgers in Sydney last week and he hardly ate anything.
‘It’s the reflux thing,’ he says, rubbing a hand over his chest. ‘Makes it uncomfortable to eat a whole lot.’
‘You promised you’d see a doctor about it.’
‘I will, Mum,’ he says, bugging his eyes at me. ‘Uni’s turning out to be a bit more stressful than I’d anticipated.’
Tom’s studying on a scholarship, so it’s understandable he’s feeling the pressure to do well. He’s expected to maintain a high standard with his marks and attendance, and I know he wants to make his grandparents proud after everything they’ve done for him. Their own son, Tom’s father, is currently serving a prison sentence for fraud, while Tom’s estranged mother lives and works at a holiday resort in Far North Queensland. Bernie and Rose Lawson stepped in to raise Tom when he was eleven years old.
‘You coming for pizza?’ I ask.
‘Was just about to lock up.’ He digs in the pocket of his cargo shorts for a set of keys. As he flips the Closed sign on the door, I take one last look around the shop floor. Maybe it’s the fading light or the fine film of dust on every surface, but instead of the magical treasure trove that enchanted me as a kid, it now feels like a neglected pile of junk.
‘When did you arrive?’ I ask Tom as we follow the footpath past the IGA supermarket. A guy in a green polo shirt is rolling fresh produce bins back inside, even though it’s barely half past six. The IGA used to stay open until nine.
‘Caught the train up yesterday.’
‘What happened to getting your driver’s licence? It was all you could talk about last year.’
‘Don’t you start,’ he says, the pizzeria’s lights reflected in his glasses. ‘Raf ’s already been on at me about it.’ He juts his chin at a silver hatchback puttering towards us up Railway Parade. A tent-shaped light is perched on the car’s roof with an illustration of a pizza slice and the words It’s Pizza Time!. ‘Speak of the devil.’
My hand finds its way to my bare neck, suddenly unsure about my new hairstyle. Already lightly flushed from walking, the heat in my skin deepens.
‘Come on,’ I say, steering Tom by the arm. ‘Let’s see if we can get a table.’
He glances at the empty parking spaces, at the security rollers pulled down over neighbouring shops. The only people around are loitering outside the Criterion Hotel, having a quiet smoke by the pub’s entrance. ‘Somehow I don’t think that’ll be a problem.’
Tom pulls aside the plastic strips hanging across the pizzeria’s doorway, gesturing for me to enter ahead of him. It’s an older-style shop with a long counter down one side and a row of timber booths on the other. Sally and Liv Nolan have refurbished the fittings to their original 1980s glory, including a hand-drawn chalkboard menu with spotlights instead of the modern backlit variety. There are red and white tablecloths and garlic garlands, and even wine bottles with straw baskets hanging along the wood-panelled walls. Known for its kitschy character and primo pizza, this place is usually bustling on a Friday eve
ning with locals and tourists alike.
Tonight though, every booth sits empty except for Sabeen down the back, folding pizza boxes.
‘Hey, hey!’ she says, sliding out of her seat. She skips towards us, her dark brown ponytail swinging like a pendulum. ‘The band’s back together.’ Beneath her apron, a tight white T-shirt dazzles against her olive skin, and she’s managed to smear a very obvious drip of pizza sauce across her collarbone.
‘I think she’s happy to see us,’ I say to Tom, and Sabeen flashes her big toothy grin.
‘I’ve bloody missed you two!’ She hooks an arm around each of us, pulling us into a three-way hug. ‘I hope you’re hungry.’
Tom gives her a weak smile and I nod, even though I’m rapidly losing my appetite. The squeal of brakes outside tells me Raf has pulled the hatchback into a parking space. Any minute he’ll walk inside. An image flashes into my head before I can stop it: Raf leaning against the rough timber door of the bush hut, water droplets clinging to his hair.
My pulse quickens and I try to think about something else.
‘Okay, let me see,’ Sabeen says, taking me by the shoulders. She spins me in a slow circle to scrutinise my hair. ‘It’s shorter than it seemed in the photos. I wasn’t a hundred per cent sold, but I think it’s growing on me.’
‘Or on Chloe,’ Tom says. ‘Literally.’
He gives me a sly glance because she isn’t exactly being complimentary. This is classic Sabeen, though – she always gets straight to the point. On the first day we met, as the moving truck was backing slowly up the motel driveway, she rambled down the hill from her house, tall and gangly, her hair hanging all the way to her bum. ‘I’m Sabeen Nolan,’ she’d announced. ‘I have two mums and a brother called Rafi, and my father was born in Pakistan. He gave Mum and Min a special present so they could have me.’ I had no clue what sperm donation was, or what any of that meant at the time, but even at six years old Sabeen had a confidence about her I didn’t question, an air of authority I knew I could trust.
She invites us now to sit in a booth by the window while she goes to rustle up some garlic bread. Neither of her mums are currently working the prep area or pizza oven, although the smell of pepperoni and garlic wafting through the restaurant indicates the kitchen is very much in use. As Tom and I take a seat, I hear the jangle of car keys and look up in time to see Raf stepping through the doorway. He’s dressed simply in a black T-shirt and jeans, his wavy hair longer on top than when I last saw him. It now falls across the bridge of his nose.
He tosses an empty insulated pouch towards his sister. ‘Fill thy delivery bag, pizza wench.’
Sabeen scoffs and flicks it back. ‘Do it thyself, loser.’
‘Hey,’ comes a voice from behind the counter. ‘Knock it off, you two.’ Liv appears from the storeroom carrying a hefty jar of olives. ‘That’s hardly professional.’
‘Pffft. There’s no one here,’ Raf says, not having seen us by the window.
Tom stands, alerting Raf and Liv to our presence. ‘Ahem?’
‘Tommy-boy!’ Raf breaks into a grin. ‘How are you, mate?’
They grasp hands and do the bro-hug thing, and it gives me a chance to sneak a few glimpses at Raf without being obvious. Unruly eyebrows, thick lashes, hazel eyes, chewed fingernails. I know these features almost as well as my own.
‘Chloe, love,’ Liv says in happy surprise. Her English accent is untainted by fifteen years in Australia. She places the olive jar down and comes around from behind the counter. ‘I didn’t hear you come in. Look at this gorgeous pixie cut. It suits you!’
Raf ’s eyes find me as I slide awkwardly out of the booth, but his mum is already stepping between us. Liv is the older of Sabeen and Raf ’s mums and they call her Min, short for mini-Mum. She’s a petite woman with cropped silver hair and an enormous laugh, always dressed in workout gear like she’s about to go for a run. Her embrace is short, tight and genuine. She cups my face in her hands before glancing over her shoulder at her son.
‘Check out you two, all in black,’ she says, eyes crinkling. ‘Two peas in a pod.’
Raf tugs at the hem of his T-shirt in a way I find endearing. He sometimes seems self-conscious about his body but I’ve always liked the way he fills out his clothes. Though older than Sabeen by eighteen months, he’s slightly shorter and has inherited the sturdy build and deep olive skin of his father. Amir lives in London, but I’ve seen plenty of photos.
‘Hi,’ I manage, barely meeting Raf ’s eyes.
His smile is fleeting, as though acknowledging a stranger waiting for the same bus.
‘Hey,’ he says to the floor.
‘Sit. Sit!’ Liv steers us back towards our table. ‘Let me get you all something to eat. Raf, love, the next order’s almost ready to go.’
‘Duty calls,’ he tells us, holding up the insulated pouch. ‘Catch you guys later.’
I feel a sudden urge to reach for his hand, ask if we could speak outside, alone. But he’s already behind the counter getting in Sabeen’s way, bickering with her about whether the garlic bread she’s holding is part of his next delivery.
‘Where’s Sally?’ I ask Liv. Sabeen returns to our booth with the bread, scooching in beside me.
‘She’s got the night off,’ Liv explains as she hands some plates around. ‘Things have been a little quiet lately.’ As if sensing my worry, she adds, ‘It’ll pick up again, though. Once they reopen Cutler Bend and finish repairing these damaged shops. It’s just taking a bit longer than we hoped.’
‘Grandpa says all the media coverage about the storm damage didn’t do this town any favours,’ Tom says. ‘Daytrippers and tourists have been bypassing it in favour of places like Berrima and Bundanoon. He reckons we’ll be feeling the effects of that night for months.’
Henry’s face drifts into my mind and I realise how accurate Tom’s words are.
Raf heads out with the next delivery. I feel a weird sort of ache when he doesn’t stop by our table on his way out the door.
‘I’d better get some pizzas on for you lot,’ Liv says, heading back to the kitchen. ‘A Mexicana and a Sally’s Special?’
‘Sounds good, Min,’ Sabeen says absently, her attention on the window. A Subaru wagon is pulling up outside at the same time Raf is driving away. Early 2000s model, dark blue with silver bumpers and black roof racks. I recognise it straightaway.
Tom stiffens. ‘I didn’t know you’d invited them.’
I glance at him, curious. Sabeen frowns slightly. ‘Of course I did,’ she says. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’
In Sabeen’s mind we’re the same close-knit circle of friends we’ve been for over a decade. In truth, even before Henry disappeared, the cracks were starting to show. The incident at the reservoir on Boxing Day left us all divided, and Sabeen refuses to acknowledge the group’s dynamic might be changing. She thinks of us all as family and would clutch us in a group hug forever if she could.
As soon as the Subaru’s engine cuts out, we hear raised voices. Angry words puncture the still evening.
‘… enough …’
‘… hate this …’
‘… not fair!’
Mason’s in the driver’s seat, one hand gripping the steering wheel, his head tipped back to stare at the ceiling. On the passenger side, Rina is gesturing wildly with her hands.
‘That’s why,’ Tom says to Sabeen, making a point of turning away from the glass. He rubs a palm across his chest, a pained expression on his face. He’s always hated confrontation. Tom has long been our peacemaker, the levelheaded one we all listen to. With any of our childhood games or squabbles we’d turn to Tom for adjudication because he’s always fair and impartial. But as soon as things get too heated, he’s the first one to locate an escape route.
‘What do you think they’re arguing about?’ I ask, wondering if I should tell them about the motel window and Mason’s lie about his injured hands. But Sabeen might get snippy with me – she doesn’t like it when I criticise Mason – and
Tom’s already looking uncomfortable. I decide to file it away for later.
Rina opens the car door and the voices grow louder. Even Tom’s drawn back to the window as she swears and slams the door before stalking off up the road.
‘Oh no,’ Sabeen murmurs. She bites her bottom lip and shifts beside me like she might dash outside to see if Rina’s okay. Mason remains in the car for a while with his head down, and I sense Sabeen’s concern shifting to him. She doesn’t know who to help; she’s immobilised by indecision, like a stressed-out mum who just wants us all to get along.
The Subaru’s engine roars to life and the car reverses quickly into the road, tearing off in the opposite direction to Rina.
‘They’re always doing this,’ Sabeen says, managing an uncertain smile. ‘I’m sure everything will be okay in the morning.’
Tom’s expression is one I can’t quite read, but I get the feeling he thinks Sabeen’s hope might be misplaced. Mason is his best mate; he might know something we don’t.
It’s not long before Liv returns to the table with two piping hot pizzas. She manages to eat a couple of slices with us before a small run of phone orders has her back in the kitchen. Raf is in and out three more times before things slow enough for him to eat dinner himself. He doesn’t sit with us, instead choosing to perch on a stool behind the counter, taking quick bites between sweeping and helping his mum clean up.
‘Hey, Your Highness,’ he says to his sister. ‘You wanna actually do some work around here?’ He holds up a full garbage bag in each hand, indicating for Sabeen to grab another to take out to the dumpster. A look passes between them and Sabeen’s eyes dart to me, then away just as quickly. Raf murmurs something urgent to her on their way out the back door.
‘I’d better get going,’ I tell Tom. ‘It’s almost dark and Dad will worry if I’m not back soon.’ He hugs me farewell and I thank Liv for dinner. ‘I’ll leave the back way to say bye to Raf and Sabeen.’
Deep Water Page 3