Deep Water

by Sarah Epstein

  * * *

  I return to my bike, still trying to process Ivy’s words, when I notice headlights a little further down the road. The sun has completely disappeared now, and a narrow wedge of moon is visible through the trees. Waxing crescent, I think, picturing Raf ’s grinning face. It lifts my spirits a little after my strange conversation with Ivy.

  As the headlights draw closer I realise it’s likely to be Mason. There aren’t many houses out here on this semi-rural road, and now that Cutler Bend is closed, you have to take a longer route from town via a section of the old highway. The road fizzles out further up near the national park, so you’d only drive out this way if you lived here.

  As the car draws closer, I drag my bike away from the letterbox and duck out of sight behind a bush. If Mason wants my dad to keep his distance, I can’t imagine he’d be thrilled to find me here either. I hear the car slow down, the creaking suspension as it bumps over the kerb, the pop and tick of tyres against gravel on the driveway. I peek through the bush to see the station wagon moving slowly towards the carport, red tail-lights blazing.

  Suddenly, everything goes pitch black. Mason’s killed the lights. He rolls the last fifty metres in the dark. Curious, I leave my bike where it is and walk back up towards the house, pausing beside a tree when I see a small light in the carport. Mason is illuminated briefly as he climbs out of his car. He presses the driver’s door closed with a gentle, almost soundless shove. Instead of walking over to the verandah, he continues on through the carport towards the backyard.

  I follow, hesitating at the end of the carport. The old dirt driveway continues all the way to the bush, an old tin garden shed marking the property’s boundary. The car’s engine ticks as it cools behind me, and I weigh up whether to go on. How often do I get out here to the Weavers’ place? I found nothing of note inside the house. Maybe seeing what Mason’s up to means I won’t leave empty-handed.

  I’m too exposed on the open dirt area, even in the dark, so I veer towards a cluster of gum trees growing along the fence line between the Weavers’ block and the neighbouring one. Matching my pace to Mason’s, I stay close to the trees, ducking behind one as he slows outside the tin shed. He glances over his shoulder towards the house and I press myself against the trunk of a tall eucalypt, praying it’s not crawling with ants. When I feel it’s safe to take a peek, Mason is gone and a square of golden light is falling across the ground outside the open shed door. He reappears with a shovel in his hand a moment before the light blinks off.

  My heart skips.

  I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.

  I’m suddenly aware of how secluded this property is now that the old Milburn house sits empty. Bushland at the back, paddocks across the road and vacant properties on either side. You could stand in the middle of this yard and scream your lungs out, and who would hear? Who would come running? Anything could happen out here and nobody would know.

  Mason’s moving again, into the wall of trees beyond the shed. There’s a narrow trail here, not often used judging by its overgrown appearance. I pull out my phone, checking it has enough battery just in case I need it. As I turn the screen’s brightness down, I notice the smallest signal bar is dropping in and out.

  I’m not sure how far in front Mason is until we get some way into the trees and a light appears ahead. There’s a decent gap between us but I can clearly see Mason is holding a torch. It feels like we’ve walked for ages, though it might only be a hundred metres – it’s difficult to see any landmarks, something to measure distance. I hang back, not wanting to trap myself with no way of slipping out unseen.

  The torch’s beam sweeps across the trunk of a large fallen tree. Mason slows and turns off the trail, stepping gingerly through the undergrowth. He places the torch down on one end of the tree trunk and bends over.

  I stay where I am, unable to see what he’s doing. There’s a sound like the shovel breaking ground, the light pitter-patter of soil being discarded on top of dry leaves. He digs for less than a minute, then drops to a crouch, only his head visible from my vantage point. It’s not long before he’s on his feet again, and the shovel is back in use.

  Chloe, you need to leave.

  I have no way of hiding here without him hearing me thrash through ferns and dead leaves. The trail is too narrow for me to hide behind one of the closer trees – Mason would spot me in a second. Doubling back along the trail, I walk quickly with light footsteps, glancing over my shoulder once or twice to check for the torchlight. I’ll never make it up to the carport without being seen on the open ground. As soon as the tin shed comes into view I head straight for it, ducking around the back and squatting close to the ground.

  As I suspected, Mason isn’t far behind me. Footsteps scrape up the bush trail, and then nothing. No movement. I strain to listen, hearing only the pounding in my own ears. A few seconds of agonising silence stretch on. Staying low and holding my breath, I glance up at the corner of the shed, expecting to see Mason standing there watching me.

  Squeeaakk. The shed door opens. I press my ear to the corrugated tin and hear a dull thump on the other side. The door squeaks shut and Mason’s footsteps retreat until I no longer hear them at all.

  I don’t know how long I stay crouched behind the shed until I feel it’s safe to move. By the time I sneak back past the Weavers’ house, the night has well and truly set in. As I’m retrieving my bike, my phone vibrates with new messages, and I’m relieved I put it on silent. It has a signal again at least.

  Pumping my legs briskly on the ride home, my mind is spinning along with the wheels, as though I’m trying to shake the bad thoughts chasing me down. I know Sabeen would say I’ve been listening to too many crime podcasts, but I can’t help circling back to the same three questions.

  Why is Mason applying for a passport?

  Why was the Weavers’ kitchen floor so clean the morning after the storm?

  And … what the hell has Mason buried in his backyard?

  Two weeks before the storm

  He hadn’t meant to push Henry in. It all happened so fast. It was like the pressure in his head needed releasing, a means to vent the frustration.

  The worst part was, it had started out as a completely different kind of day.

  Raf and Sabeen had brought the Christmas leftovers for a Boxing Day picnic and laid it all out on the flat surface of Devil’s Rock. The picnic ground was busy with tourists, most of them staying at the nearby motel. There were shrieks of laughter as people took sneaky paddles in the reservoir, somebody’s iPod playing Christmas carols, a family cricket match in full swing. It was a good kind of racket; a cheerful buzz. Mason kicked off his shoes and leaned back on his elbows, the rock warm and firm beneath him, the soaring sky a contented shade of blue.

  Tom mirrored his pose, leaning back beside him, his bare legs growing pink in the sun. The two of them had finished Year Twelve now and the pressure was off – no more teachers, no more exams and no more Darren bloody Foster. Apart from Mason’s work days, they had the rest of the summer to kick back and hang out together. This was the perfect start. Rina had gone to Wollongong with her mum for the day, so she wasn’t here insisting Mason put sunscreen on her every five minutes, and Henry was at the Lawsons’ place helping Uncle Bernie work on his caravan. Mason felt unencumbered. Relaxed. No one needed anything from him and he could just … be.

  It was the first time in a long time he’d felt something approaching happy.

  And then Chloe stood up to brush breadcrumbs off her lap, the warm breeze catching hold of her short floral dress. It rippled briefly in a way that exposed her upper thighs, and Mason realised Tom was watching her intently. His eyes travelled the length of Chloe’s legs before he averted his gaze, slightly embarrassed. Tom was watching Chloe, and Mason was watching Tom. And Mason realised he really, really didn’t want Tom looking at Chloe in that way.

  Chloe was Raf ’s girl. Not officially. Raf was too hopeless to have made any kind of move even tho
ugh he’d clearly had a crush on her for years. Mason had never seen Raf so mopey and sombre as when he found out Chloe’s mum was leaving The Shallows and dragging her daughter back to Sydney with her. Now, every time Chloe visited, there was a whole bunch of flirting going on between them, but neither seemed to have realised they’d have to make a bold move if they wanted it to go anywhere.

  Mason struggled to see what the big attraction was with Chloe, especially since she didn’t seem to have much time for him but endless reserves for his brother. She’d been up in Mason’s face a few times about Henry. She was stubborn. And Mason got the impression his mother couldn’t stand her. Although putting aside his own issues with her, something about Chloe and Raf seemed to fit, and Mason wouldn’t be surprised if they eventually ended up together.

  None of this was why he didn’t want Tom looking at her in that way, though.

  It wasn’t even about Chloe. It was about Tom.

  Tom was his best mate, his support team, his confidant. Not Chloe’s.

  So maybe this was jealousy. Mason could admit it.

  And then she got a leg cramp. A painful spasm in her calf. Sabeen jumped up to help but Tom was already there, telling Chloe to hold still while his hands found her bare skin, massaging her calf muscle in a circular motion with his thumbs. Raf was oblivious to everything, earbuds in, facing the water and trying to toss M&Ms into his own mouth.

  Mason had to stop himself from kicking Raf ’s foot to get his attention.

  Do something, Raf! he wanted to say. Tom’s over there moving in on your girl.

  But what he really thought was, Your girl’s over there moving in on my guy.

  He almost laughed at himself. How bloody ridiculous. He didn’t think of Tom that way! They were mates. And Mason had Rina for god’s sake.

  But also … it was confusing. He thought about Tom all the time, when he would see him next, what they would talk about. He remembered all the times he’d been able to make Tom belly-laugh and how good it felt. Whenever Mason had had a rough time with his mother, Tom was the person he sought out, and even if Mason didn’t share exactly what happened, Tom knew how to be there for him without needing to know details. They were really, really good friends. The best.

  So Mason didn’t know what possessed him to start talking to the two German backpackers who climbed up onto Devil’s Rock to check out the view. He might have wanted to make Tom jealous too. He just wasn’t really sure why.

  The blonde girls were trying to take a selfie. Mason jumped up and offered to take the photo for them. The taller girl gave him an appraising once-over, nudging her friend, and they both giggled and introduced themselves in faltering English. As the three of them struggled through a conversation, Mason noticed Sabeen and Raf assisting Chloe across the rock towards the northern trail to help stretch her leg.

  Good, he thought. Don’t hurry back.

  The German girls insisted on taking some selfies with Mason, and he said something that made them giggle again. He glanced over his shoulder at Tom. Tom wasn’t even watching – he was getting to his feet, his eyes on the short track leading from the picnic ground up to the rock.

  ‘Henry?’ Tom called. ‘You okay?’

  Mason jerked around. His brother was rounding the section of trail through the large boulders. Within seconds Henry was running across the rock towards him.

  ‘Mason,’ he panted. He was out of breath, like he’d run all the way from the start of the reservoir trail, where he would have dumped his bike. ‘You’ve gotta come.’

  Mason frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve gotta help me,’ Henry pleaded, pressing a hand to a spot under his ribs and wincing like he had a stitch. ‘I came home and found blood on the kitchen floor. She’s dripped it all the way through the living room. She broke something and there’s glass everywhere. Come on, Mase, please. Please help me clean it up.’

  One of the German girls giggled nervously at the mention of blood. And suddenly Mason was eight years old again, at the big supermarket in Bowral, worrying about his mother’s injuries. Ivy had been gripping a bag of groceries in one hand, holding Henry’s hand in the other, taking unsteady steps down the concrete stairs towards the car park. The way she’d spoken to the cashier in the supermarket was probably a giveaway, quibbling over some two-for-one offer that had been advertised in a catalogue but hadn’t shown up on the receipt. Her voice grew increasingly loud, drawing the attention of other customers and causing the cashier to flush a deep shade of pink.

  Then his mother slurred the word manager and knocked a tub of charity pins off the counter with her handbag. An old lady tsked and turned to her husband, murmuring something Mason couldn’t hear, then the old man raised his eyebrows and looked Mason’s mother up and down. ‘Had a few you reckon?’ he said to his wife. Mason dropped to the floor to scoop the pins back into their container, and his mother nudged him with her knee. ‘Leave them,’ she growled. ‘Let’s go.’

  Her shoulder hit the automatic doors on her way out, almost spinning her in a circle. She swore loudly and a woman at the cigarette counter peered over and shook her head. Mason was keenly aware that people were judging his mother. When Henry stopped to stroke the Guide Dogs collection box, asking if he could put some coins into the dog’s head, Mason’s mother turned on him. ‘You think I can spare money for a plastic dog?’ she spat. She yanked him away by the hand and headed for the stairs, leaving Mason trailing behind. He was so busy throwing everyone apologetic glances he didn’t see the moment her foot missed the step, her body rolling like a wave, Henry yanked clean off his feet in her wake.

  He heard glass breaking. The plastic grocery bag had split. Tins scattered and tumbled down the steps with a whirr and a plop. It was only a short set of stairs but his mother landed hard at the bottom. Mason heard the air go out of her. By some miracle Henry landed on top of her as she lay sprawled on the pavement, a little shaken, otherwise unharmed. Ivy stayed down for a minute, groaning, shoving at Henry with her elbow for him to climb off. She lifted her arm to inspect the palm of her hand, a layer of skin scraped off. Unsure of what he should be doing, Mason quickly retrieved two tins of baked beans and scanned the car park, hoping someone else would know how to help.

  The car park was deserted except for three teenage girls loitering near the trolley return, passing a sly cigarette back and forth. One of them burst out laughing. The other two sniggered and the first one half-heartedly called out, ‘Need any help?’ Mason couldn’t remember what his mother said, if she’d even bothered to reply. What he did remember is how she swatted his hand away as he tried to assist her.

  ‘Keep walking,’ his mother hissed at them, struggling to get to her knees, pointing at the bus stop up on the road. The teen girls sniggered again at the abandoned grocery bag lying like roadkill at the base of the stairs. Mason couldn’t take his eyes off it as the bus arrived, thinking about how hard his mother had argued for that two-for-one.

  And now there were more giggling girls. Another injury. Tom stepped forwards, his brow furrowed.

  ‘Hey, mate,’ he said quietly. And then Mason saw it: that fleeting look of pity. It wasn’t how he wanted Tom to look at him. Ever. This day had been perfect and now it was ruined.

  ‘I’ll be home when I’m home,’ Mason told his brother. ‘I’m going for a swim.’

  He moved towards the edge of the rock, his T-shirt slipping from Henry’s grip. Henry shadowed him, stepping directly into his path, so Mason jerked to the right and Henry did too. Under different circumstances it might have been comical.

  ‘Move,’ Mason growled. ‘Get out of my way.’

  ‘Please,’ Henry said.

  The backpackers murmured to one another and giggled again.

  ‘Come on, Mason,’ Tom said. ‘We’ll come back here tomorrow.’

  Mason couldn’t do it. He couldn’t go home and clean up her mess. He couldn’t patch her up. He couldn’t put her to bed. He couldn’t.

  He wouldn’t.
r />   ‘Move!’ he begged Henry, his voice cracking.

  ‘No!’ Henry yelled back.

  Everything around Mason went white and silent, like all the colour and sound had bled from the world. He placed his hand in the middle of Henry’s chest and pushed.

  The split second that Henry’s chest disappeared from beneath his fingers, Mason flexed them in a bid to grab hold of the T-shirt that was no longer there. It was a reflex – protect Henry – because at that moment Mason felt like he was no longer inside his own head.

  Beside him Tom gasped. It barely registered. Mason watched the birds dipping and swooping in the mangrove shallows on the opposite shore. He didn’t even hear his brother hit the water.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Tom said, clutching Mason’s lower arm and squeezing. They both looked down at the blue-green water erupting with bubbles. Somewhere, distantly, Mason heard yelling. Chloe. Calling his name, and Henry’s.

  Henry surfaced below, an eruption of hacking coughs and flailing arms. The memory of baby Henry in the bathtub sliced into Mason’s consciousness, how still and quiet it had been, the tiny bubbles clustered around Henry’s nose, clinging to his eyelashes like diamonds. How different this was now, so much noisier and messier, as the water tried to claim his brother again.

  The cool silence of their tiled bathroom stretched around him, the calm fascination of standing over the tub and finding his brother’s tiny face blinking back at him, his natural instinct to hold his breath kicking in. Mason had let the bath fill too high, he’d got distracted. Six-month-old Henry had only just learned how to sit up by himself. And now here he was lying on the bottom of the tub.