Deep Water

by Sarah Epstein

Ensuring the screen door doesn’t bang behind me, I keep my footsteps light across the pavers in the courtyard. The sun is now low in the sky, long shadows providing me cover as I edge towards the back fence. With only a few wooden palings between us, Sabeen and Raf ’s voices are clearly audible on the other side. A gap near the gate provides me with a view of the two rusty dumpsters in the rear laneway.

  ‘I know you,’ Raf is saying. ‘You’ll be tempted to blurt something out.’

  ‘I haven’t said anything to her,’ Sabeen replies, glaring at her brother. ‘But don’t you think we should tell her what we found?’

  Raf swings a garbage bag up and over into the dumpster, flicking his hair out of his eyes. ‘We’ve already talked about this.’

  ‘It’s just—’

  ‘We agreed, Sabeen.’ Raf ’s voice takes on an edge of warning. He tosses the two remaining garbage bags with a little more force than the first. ‘It’s better if we don’t say anything.’

  Sabeen huffs, letting her arms drop to her sides. ‘I know … but Henry …’

  Raf turns abruptly and starts walking back towards the restaurant. I duck behind a wheelie bin and crouch in the shadows with my back to the fence, grateful for the gathering darkness. Sabeen follows her brother through the gate with her head down, and as they pass me I hear her inhale as if she’s about to say something else.

  ‘I mean it,’ Raf says, cutting her off. ‘Chloe doesn’t need to know.’

  Eleven weeks before the storm

  25 OCTOBER 2018, 17:25

  Henry Weaver accepted Missy Ellwood’s message request.

  Missy: Hey!

  Henry: Hi.

  Missy: Thanks for accepting my friend request.

  Henry: No problem.

  Missy: How’s it going?

  Henry: Okay. Do I know you?

  Missy: Yeah, of course.

  Henry: I don’t think we’ve met.

  Missy: Airsden High?

  Henry: Nah, I don’t go there.

  Missy: Oops. My bad.

  Henry: Where is it?

  Missy: Sydney’s North Shore.

  Henry: I live in The Shallows.

  Missy: Where’s that?

  Henry: Middle of nowhere. NSW Southern Highlands.

  Missy: Weird. You came up in ‘People you may know’ and I thought your name was familiar. I guess you don’t really look like a parrot in a pirate hat?

  Henry: Nah. That’s just a private joke.

  Missy: So do you wanna keep talking?

  Henry: Sure. Whatever.

  Missy: Cool. So how old are you?

  Henry: How old are YOU?

  Missy: I asked you first! :P

  Henry: Fair enough. I’m 13.

  Missy: Me too! Glad you’re not some old creep.

  Henry: Haha nup.

  Missy: So what’s your deal? Got any brothers or sisters?

  Henry: A brother. My biggest fan.

  Missy: Aww, that’s sweet.

  Henry: I was being sarcastic. He calls me a little turd.

  Missy: Harsh! Older brothers can be like that I guess.

  Henry: How do you know he’s older?

  Missy: You said he calls you little.

  Henry: Oh right.

  Missy: What’s his issue with you?

  Henry: –_(ツ)_/– I was born?

  Missy: That’s sad.

  Henry: Kinda used to it. Hey sorry, I gotta go. Need to get off this computer.

  Missy: You’re not on your phone?

  Henry: Don’t have one.

  Missy: That’s so weird! Can I message you again?

  Henry: Sure, if you want. Thanks for the chat.

  Missy: Don’t be a stranger.

  Now

  Sleep doesn’t come easily on my first night back in town. Long after I hear Dad lock up the front office and trudge down the hallway to bed, I’m still staring at the ceiling in the dark, listening to a true crime podcast but not really hearing a word.

  Uneasiness settles in my chest as I turn Raf and Sabeen’s conversation over in my mind. Dad would tell me I’m reading too much into it – I should let it lie, not make mountains out of molehills. He’s always accused my mother of getting her knickers twisted over the smallest things, saying if she isn’t careful she’ll make me neurotic as well. For better or worse, I’m probably more like my mother in this regard than I care to admit. Reading into things is what I do. It’s what investigators do. And if something sounds suss it’s probably because it is.

  ‘Chloe doesn’t need to know.’

  Chloe does need to know. In my experience it doesn’t help anyone by leaving them in the dark. It hurts more in the long run when that person inevitably finds out. Like my mother’s affair with Doherty. Like Henry running away without breathing a word to me.

  Not that I’m one to be lecturing about secrets, I suppose. It’s just that some are more damaging than others.

  The podcast episode comes to an end and I don’t bother starting the next one. I kick off the blanket and roll onto my side, catching sight of my alarm clock. It’s ticked over into Saturday, which means Henry is now a long-term missing person.

  Three months. No new leads.

  I open Gmail and scroll through my messages with Henry. We set up an account for him a couple of years ago so the two of us could stay in touch during school terms. His emails have always been fairly short and light on details, mostly because his internet time was limited to hour-long sessions at the public library. Even so, there’s nothing in the last few messages before the December school holidays that hint at any kind of plan to run away.

  Toggling to Facebook, I click through to the Have You Seen Henry Weaver? page. Sabeen’s updated the banner with a different photo of Henry, the same one I’ve used on the new MISSING posters. It’s a selfie he took with my phone outside Shallow Vintage Wares, the most recent photo we have of him. In the uncropped original, Uncle Bernie is unintentionally photobombing through the shop window.

  Every time Sabeen posts a new image, the page receives a flurry of comments. Mostly people citing their postcode and declaring they’ve shared it, or a few words like ‘Still missing?’ and ‘Geez, I hope he’s found’. There are always a few angry questions about why police aren’t doing more to find him, theories from armchair detectives who speculate about everything from religious cults to serial killers. A few even claim to have seen Henry sleeping rough in underground train stations or eating out of rubbish bins in Kings Cross.

  Even though I’m co-admin, I almost can’t visit the page anymore.

  The new header image has attracted about thirty new comments. My pulse skips when I recognise one of the profile pictures. His comment is four days old, nestled in among kind sentiments from strangers.

  Rafi Nolan: Miss your corny jokes mate. Please come home.

  My thumb wavers over the like button. I picture the way Raf was with me in the pizzeria, how he could hardly meet my eye. Is he embarrassed about what happened at the bush hut? How we kissed and fooled around? Has he decided it was a mistake? He seemed very okay with it at the time.

  I close the app without liking the comment, and toss the phone onto my pillow. Moving to the window, I ease the curtain aside for a better view of the Nolans’ house up the hill. There’s no light in Raf ’s window at this hour, and I wonder, not for the first time, if he ever glances down here seeking a light in mine.

  I tug the lower half of the window upwards and it jams in the usual place, creating a four-inch gap above the windowsill. I hear, rather than feel, a gentle breeze hissing through the overgrown field beside the motel. My gaze is drawn to the nearby bushland, a sombre mass of vegetation like plumes of black smoke billowing from the horizon.

  A quick movement catches my eye. Three shadows – either birds or bats – burst abruptly from the dark treetops and take flight. Directly below this, a pale object hovers near the entrance to the reservoir trail. Barely illuminated by the glow from the motel and streetlights, it’s a struggle
to make sense of what it is. I squint for more definition. It sort of looks like—

  It could almost be—

  A person in a white T-shirt.

  Watching my window.

  I duck away from the glass. The curtain resettles itself as I lunge sideways to switch off the table lamp. Only when my bedroom is dark do I drop to my knees and move back over to the window. Slipping under the curtain, I peer through the gap at the night outside, willing my eyes to adjust. At first I see nothing. Then … a pale shape moves deeper into bushland along the reservoir trail.

  My chest tightens.

  Henry?

  A ridiculous thought.

  Or is it?

  Maybe he’s back. Maybe he doesn’t want anyone finding out.

  Mr Milburn’s words echo in my mind: ‘Ever consider the young lad might not want to be found?’

  Henry knows I’ll be here for the school holidays. Is he doing reconnaissance to confirm that’s the case? There’s really only one way to find out.

  My hoodie slips easily over the top of my pyjamas, and I rummage under my bed for my sneakers. I don’t know why I feel such a strong urge to follow. It’s the same feeling I got that evening when Mum said she was going to Julie Somerton’s house for book club, and when I followed her on my bike she drove to Doherty’s neat little weatherboard instead. I was twelve at the time, and all I had to go on was a subtle shift in Doherty’s behaviour, which had set off alarm bells. Sometimes you’re handed clues and you don’t even realise it. Other times you feel that pull in your gut but you talk yourself out of it and go back to bed.

  This is not one of those times.

  I move quickly to the hallway and then pause, listening for Dad’s snoring. Sure enough, there’s a steady low rumble from behind his bedroom door. He’s a heavy sleeper, and once he’s out his internal alarm clock is the only thing that’ll wake him. That’s not what I’m worried about, though. My mother’s strict curfew is at the front of my mind, her way of controlling things from a hundred and fifty kilometres away. If I break curfew, she’ll blame Dad for irresponsible parenting and threaten to use it as leverage in her case for sole custody. It’s a trap, one that hinges on my good behaviour. Slipping up means I blow it not only for myself but for Dad too.

  But if there’s a chance of finding Henry, it’s worth the risk.

  As I unlock the back door I feel the weight of my phone in the pocket of my hoodie. I’m not convinced Mum isn’t monitoring me via some kind of location-tracking app. She’d love nothing better than itemised proof of Dad failing in his duty of care. I place it carefully on the hall table before slipping out the back door and locking it behind me. Mum’s voice is in the back of my mind: ‘You’re too curious for your own good, you know. One day it’s going to get you in trouble.’ So far the only person who’s got into trouble because of my curiosity is her.

  It’s easy enough to scramble over the motel’s metre-high fence, more of a boundary marker than any kind of security measure. The moonless night makes it challenging to see without the torchlight on my phone. As I move quickly through the field, thistles snag on my flannelette pyjamas and I pause to tuck my pants inside my socks. I try really hard not to think about the kinds of things that enjoy slithering through long, dry grass.

  At the end of the field’s narrow dirt track, an established walking trail begins at the tree line. The vegetation becomes denser and more enclosed the further you go in. I hesitate, listening for whispers of movement, widening my eyes to scour the penetrating darkness. I’m not sure if it’s a relief or disappointment when I only find shadows.

  The warm glow of the motel lights suddenly feels very far away. Ahead, an endless cavern of trees stretches into nothingness. Despite my climbing heart rate, the night seems to be drawing me in.

  Go deeper.

  The steel in my spine is corroding with doubt.

  ‘Henry?’ I whisper.

  Did I really see anything out here? Or am I so desperate to find Henry that my mind is now inventing him?

  Something flutters in the darkness above my head. It’s enough to unsettle me. Just because I can’t see them, doesn’t mean there aren’t nocturnal creatures out here watching my every move.

  I feel the push and pull of my own stubbornness.

  Keep going.

  Is that a good idea?

  You need to find out who it is.

  What if I’m following a complete stranger to a remote location without my phone?

  Turning on my heel, I scurry back out of the trees and into the field, hyper-aware of the sound of my feet pounding on the dirt track. My pace is faster than my breath can comfortably keep up with, every jolt through my legs like somebody shaking sense into me. By the time I reach the motel fence I’m wheezing.

  Headlights sweep across the field as a car crests the hill near the Nolans’ place. I drop down and crouch like a prison escapee trying to evade spotlights. The car cruises slowly towards the motel as I scramble over the fence, and I swear under my breath as I recognise Doherty’s police vehicle.

  A paved path runs along the fence line beside our residence, meeting up with the motel’s front lawn. Doherty only needs to glance in this direction and I’ll be easy enough to spot; there’s nothing between me and the road to draw his eye. With no time to fumble for my key, I scramble onto the doorstep and flatten myself against the door. If Doherty catches sight of me, he might mistake me for a burglar. Or Mason Weaver. Either way, he’ll wake my dad to get him involved.

  Several minutes pass before I peek my head around the doorway and risk a glimpse of the road. Swarms of moths loop frantically around the streetlights, but otherwise all is still.

  As I unlock the door, a breeze at my back seems to shunt me inside, a chorus of crickets mocking my impulsive behaviour. Somewhere behind the motel, deep inside that woody tangle of trees, a bush curlew’s shrill birdcall pierces the darkness. Over and over it cries, like somebody screaming my name.

  * * *

  I sleep later than intended on Saturday morning.

  I’m not exactly sure what time I managed to drift off last night, but it wasn’t before I’d created a new detailed list in my Notes app titled Incidents. I listed every strange thing that had happened in the eight or so hours since I’d arrived: the broken window, Mason’s lie, Mason and Rina’s argument, Sabeen and Raf talking about me and Henry, and the figure in the field. Are any of them connected? It certainly kept me awake trying to figure that out.

  Now, as I drag myself out of bed, I realise I’ve missed the motel’s continental breakfast service. We usually like to have it delivered to rooms by seven-thirty and it’s now almost nine. My head is woolly with snatches of dreams I can’t quite remember, frustrations I’m not able to place. What I saw in the field last night now seems vague and half-formed. The more I try to picture it, the less certain I am there was anything there at all.

  Luisa’s on the computer in the front office when I surface after my shower. She’s wearing a blue and green blouse patterned with peacocks, her chestnut hair bundled high in a messy bun. She offers me a bright smile as she draws a breath. I’m learning that Luisa doesn’t ease into small talk – she launches into things mid-conversation, as though we’ve already been chatting for an hour.

  ‘I don’t know why the carpet layer thinks I have his invoice when he didn’t send it,’ she says, shaking her head. Dangly earrings dance around her neck, catching the light. ‘Him and that roofing guy, huh? They make so much money from this town after that storm.’

  Through the new window pane I spy Dad across the motel forecourt, heading into Room Three with a paint tin in his hand. The ceilings leaked in five rooms that night and Dad’s still working his way through the knock-on effect: warped plasterboard, stained walls, mouldy carpet, damaged wiring. It’s a big hit for a motel that was already struggling.

  As though reading my thoughts, Luisa sighs. ‘Your dad says we just have to horsey up the cash and keep moving.’

  A s
mile finds its way to my lips. ‘I think maybe you mean pony up the cash?’

  ‘Pony, horsey …’ She wiggles her hand in a same-same gesture, then tilts her head. ‘Remember when you and Rina played My Little Ponies? The little horsies with the brushes and ribbons? You made up those funny names for them. Bowtie? Bo-something?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ I admit. ‘It was a long time ago.’

  Luisa stares wistfully into the distance before her focus shifts back to me. ‘I told Rina you’re here for the holidays, so maybe you girls can catch up for lunch or something?’

  There’s a hint of hope in her question, but something tells me her daughter won’t be interested. My childhood bond with Rina was formed around jazz ballet and Disney movies, and once we grew out of those things we sort of grew out of each other, too. While the foundations of our friendship had gradually weakened in the years since I moved back to Sydney, it was what happened a few months ago that prompted the eventual collapse: Rina was upset with me for confronting her boyfriend about what happened at the reservoir. I have no doubt there’s still some ill feeling simmering under the surface.

  I lift one shoulder in a half shrug and give Luisa a weak smile. She seems pleased enough with that response.

  ‘Sorry about missing the breakfast service,’ I tell her. ‘Can I help you out with something else?’

  ‘Obrigada. I appreciate it.’ She seems pleasantly surprised by my offer. ‘I have today’s room cleaning all covered. But you could post these for me?’ She reaches into a document tray for a small stack of envelopes. ‘And check the post office box? David always forgets.’

  She hands me the pile of letters along with a silver key. I slip them into my tote bag.

  ‘Chloe?’ Luisa says as I’m heading for the door. ‘Did you have a restless night? You look a little washed up.’

  This time I don’t correct her gaffe; anyone who can speak two languages fluently is impressive in my book.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I assure her. ‘I always have a bit of trouble sleeping on my first night back in town.’

  ‘Ah. Maybe it’s too quiet for you, yes? You’re so used to the city noise.’