He just slipped under.
I didn’t do anything.
I was going to help him.
It was his mother – she’s the one who made Henry cry, the way she pushed Mason aside and yanked Henry out of the water so fast it shocked him. The way she clutched him too tight and jiggled him up and down. The way she almost dropped him because he was slippery.
‘Mason,’ Tom said now. ‘Come on.’ He whacked the back of his hand against Mason’s chest. It brought Mason back into himself, as though yanking him awake.
Behind him he heard quick footsteps across the rock. He turned to find Chloe barrelling towards him, Raf and Sabeen not far behind.
‘Help him!’ Chloe screeched, pausing long enough to wrench off her sandshoes. She flung one at Mason, the rubber sole hitting him on the side of the face.
And then she was leaping, fully clothed, over the edge, into the water. She slung an arm under Henry’s arms and around his chest, clutching him to her as she frog-kicked them both over to the shallows.
The German girls whispered to each other and slunk off the rock. Raf and Sabeen had already done a U-turn and were now running down the trail leading to the picnic ground, towards the reservoir where Chloe was dragging Henry onto the bank. Tom lingered by Mason’s side for a moment. Mason couldn’t look at him. Instead he bent down to retrieve Chloe’s sandshoes.
‘What happened?’ Tom asked, sounding mystified.
Mason didn’t answer. He stayed down until Tom turned and hurried away.
I’m not a good person, Mason thought. I didn’t deserve this day.
He walked down off the rock, through the picnic ground, along the bank of the reservoir. His friends were gathered around Henry, a couple of adults from a nearby picnic hovering to see if there was anything they could do. His brother was soaked through, but he was sitting up and nodding. He was okay. Chloe had made sure of that.
Mason hung back a few metres and placed Chloe’s sandshoes down carefully in the sandy dirt. Then he turned and started the long walk home to go and put his mother back together again.
Now
Outside Shallow Vintage Wares, Tom’s grandfather is nursing a cup of tea and leafing through the local newspaper. He’s sitting in the same rocking chair as Henry in the photo I’m using on the new posters. I’m itching to talk to Raf and Sabeen about what I saw last night at the Weavers’ place, and had to wait until school finished. Raf hasn’t been reachable since then, but Sabeen texted me fifteen minutes ago insisting I meet her here straightaway.
‘Hi Uncle Bernie,’ I say, reaching down to give him a hug. ‘It’s okay. Don’t get up.’ I crouch in front of him, one hand resting on the arm of the rocking chair.
With months between visits, it’s obvious to me how much older Uncle Bernie’s looking all of a sudden. I’m sure Tom’s noticed it too. It’s probably why he’s panicking so much about helping out while he’s here. The shop might be getting to be too much work for Bernie and Rose, especially now that Rose has become more forgetful.
‘How are you, poppet?’ Bernie pats the top of my hand with his dry, calloused one. ‘You keeping out of trouble?’
Not exactly, I think dryly. I’m not in the right frame of mind for small talk, but I can’t be rude to Bernie. We touch base about my mum and Sydney, and how I’m doing at school. I ask after Rose and the details about their son’s upcoming parole hearing.
‘I’m worried about Tom,’ Bernie says out of the blue. ‘I think things are getting on top of him.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He never lets on, but I’m not sure he’s very happy about his course at university.’ He glances over his shoulder at the window, then leans forwards. ‘And did you know he and Mason are no longer speaking?’
‘Are you sure? He hasn’t mentioned anything about that to me.’
Bernie takes off his wire glasses and cleans them on the corner of his shirt. ‘I think they’ve had a falling out. Mason pulled up here in his car the other day to drop off something for Stu Macleod, and Tom disappeared inside without a word. Why didn’t he hang about and say hello?’
‘I’ll ask Tom about it,’ I assure him. ‘I’m sure everything’s all right.’ Now it’s my turn to pat his hand. ‘Enjoy your cuppa.’
My smile fades as soon as I enter the second-hand store. The list of things I need to address with Tom is growing. I find him behind the ornate wooden desk at the rear of the shop, stacks of paper piled up all around him. The nearby basement door is open a few inches, music from a tinny radio drifting up the stairs. A couple of shoppers are browsing through plastic tubs of dog-eared paperbacks. Otherwise the shop is empty.
Tom looks up when he realises he’s being watched.
‘What’re you up to?’ I say.
He takes off his glasses and gives me a weary smile as he rubs his eyes. ‘Incomings, outgoings, insurance stuff. Making sure it’s all backed up online.’ He shoves his glasses on again. ‘Are you here about that coffee? I’m not sure I can do it today.’
I shrug. ‘That’s okay. Thought I’d swing by to say hi.’ I bite my lip, knowing that’s not the reason I came here at all. I pick up a flyer from a small stack on the end of the desk. ‘What’s this?’
Oppose the reconstruction of Cutler Bend, it reads, with a large photo of January’s landslide covered in a red circle with a slash through it. Bushfire-affected terrain puts residents at risk.
‘Oh, those.’ He doesn’t meet my eye. ‘I’m printing a few out for Jack.’
‘Jack from the Traveller’s Rest?’ I say. Sally and Liv reckon Jack Doherty’s shonky, and a wannabe politician. He owns several businesses in The Shallows, and one of those just happens to be the only other motel in town. He’s been Dad’s direct competitor for the past decade. Worse still, he’s Sergeant Doherty’s brother. ‘Since when do you do favours for him?’
Tom’s eyebrows pinch together with a hint of annoyance. ‘Well, that’s what I do, isn’t it? Everybody asks me for favours because I’m the pushover who never says no.’
‘Hey,’ I say, my voice softening. ‘No one thinks you’re a pushover.’
He rolls the swivel chair towards the printer, grabbing another handful of printed flyers, and tosses them on top of the others.
‘What’s this all about?’ I skim over the small print.
Keep the Wiseman Road route. Sign the petition to make your voice heard.
‘He’s campaigning for the council to update their emergency prevention plan or something,’ Tom explains. ‘He wants to keep Cutler Bend closed indefinitely.’
‘Why?’
‘The whole area is prone to landslides because of bushfire damage on the hill. There’s no vegetation to catch the rain.’
‘I mean, that’s true. But surely council will reinforce the mountainside when they rebuild the road so it doesn’t happen again?’
Tom’s expression is doubtful. ‘That’s exactly what your dad was pushing for at the last council meeting, apparently. But with what funds? Grandpa said they practically flipped a coin about whether to repair the post office roof or the Scout hall. The money’s needed for so many other things.’
‘If Cutler Bend stays closed, that leaves only one route for the freeway traffic to enter and leave town.’
Tom shrugs. ‘Well … yeah.’
‘Right beside the Traveller’s Rest. How convenient for Jack Doherty’s motel and how inconvenient for ours. You’re supporting this?’
‘Hey, don’t shoot the messenger,’ Tom says, standing. He slides some paperwork into a folder and crams it into the nearby filing cabinet. ‘I’m only printing flyers, not taking sides.’
‘Tell that to the tumbleweeds blowing through our motel.’
Tom shoves the filing drawer closed so hard it rocks the cabinet. ‘Can’t win, can I? Help one person out, upset another.’
‘Whoa.’ I hold up defensive hands. ‘I’m not having a go at you.’
He drops back into his chair. ‘No one thin
ks about how much I have to juggle.’
‘You mean uni?’
His shoulders sink. ‘It’s hard living on campus and leaving Nan and Grandpa here by themselves. When Nan was diagnosed with dementia after Christmas, I was ready to reject my uni offer. She begged me to go. No one in our family has ever been to university, and she told me how proud it would make her to see me achieve my degree.’ He sighs. ‘I can’t disappoint them. I need to make sure they’re taken care of.’
‘You will.’
‘I feel so guilty,’ he says, ‘because I’m failing at everything.’
‘You’re not—’
‘I am.’ He digs a roll of chewable Quick-Eze out of his pocket and picks at the paper wrapping. ‘The weekends I’m here I can’t get any studying done, and when I’m at uni I’m constantly worrying about what’s going on here. I keep running late for lectures, and I didn’t even pass my first two tutorial tests. I can’t seem to get it together.’
‘You’re still settling in,’ I suggest. ‘Living away from home is a new challenge. It’s natural to feel overwhelmed.’
He shoves a tablet into his mouth, shaking his head. ‘I’m so distracted all the time, worrying about Nan and this shop and …’ His voice trails off as he finishes chewing the tablet.
‘Did you and Mason have a falling out too?’
He shoots me a look. ‘Is that what Mason said?’
‘It’s what your grandpa thinks.’
His gaze drops to the floor. ‘I don’t have a problem with Mason. We want different things. We’re drifting apart, you know? It happens.’
‘What about Henry?’ I say. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How did you know Henry’s postcard came from Manly?’
‘You told me it did,’ he says.
I shake my head. ‘No, I didn’t.’
He turns to face me, his eyebrows lifting. ‘Are you actually interrogating me right now?’
‘How did you know, Tom?’
‘Am I under arrest, officer?’ he says dryly, then sighs. ‘A few days before he left, Henry told me he might have found his dad in Manly, okay? He asked me not to tell anyone because he didn’t want it getting back to Ivy.’
‘So you’ve known this all along? And you didn’t think to mention it to me?’
‘Jesus.’ Tom takes off his glasses and cleans them on his T-shirt, reminiscent of his grandpa. ‘Here we go again. Help one person out, upset another. Can’t bloody win.’
This isn’t the Tom I know. He’s strung out and sarcastic. Normally he’d do anything to avoid an argument. This whole thing with uni and his grandparents is too much pressure. His dad’s parole hearing must be playing on his mind as well.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, relenting. ‘I wish Henry had spoken to me about all this stuff. I’ve gotta keep pushing until I find answers.’
‘And the postcard doesn’t do that?’
‘To be honest, it’s done nothing but prompt more questions.’
I’m about to say something else when Sabeen appears at the top of the basement stairs, her dark hair twisted into a topknot. There’s a slightly dishevelled appearance to her school uniform, and her cheekbones are high in colour. She seems flustered.
‘Hey,’ I say.
‘Chloe. Hi.’ Her tone is overly formal. ‘Good to see you.’
I smirk at her weird behaviour. ‘Do you want to go and grab a smoothie?’
‘I’m pretty busy,’ she says stiffly. ‘Why don’t you chat to me downstairs?’
Tom glances over and gives her a puzzled look. ‘You’re allowed to have a break, Sab. You’re helping out voluntarily.’
She gives a short, strange laugh. ‘I don’t mind. I’m getting loads of organising done down there. No rest for the wicked!’ She widens her eyes at me behind Tom’s back, her lips pressed tightly together.
She needs to tell me something. And she doesn’t want to do it in front of Tom.
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Lead the way.’
Tom returns to his paperwork as I join Sabeen at the basement door. She holds eye contact, touching a finger to her lips. I step past her and she quietly closes the door.
Halfway down the stairs I clutch her arm, whispering, ‘I have so much to tell you.’
She gives me a look that says, You have nooo idea.
And then I see the state of the basement. There are open boxes everywhere, random piles of paper, a jumbled collection of kitsch ornaments, a few pieces of furniture that are too damaged for the shop floor. A small AM/FM radio is playing that eighties song about the rains in Africa.
‘Don’t judge,’ Sabeen says. ‘It always looks worse before it gets better.’
‘What on earth are you doing down here?’
Sabeen moves a stack of yellowed newspapers from a footstool and invites me to sit down. ‘Hunting for important legal documents, mostly,’ she says. ‘Tom’s been searching everywhere for stuff Uncle Bernie’s misplaced. I’m also trying to figure out what needs to go to the tip.’
There are no windows down here, and a cold mustiness lingers. The bare lightbulbs cast severe shadows across the walls. I’d get claustrophobic if I had to stay down here too long.
‘I’m going to jump straight in and show you,’ Sabeen says, wringing her hands. She treads carefully through the maze of semi-organised piles to a large object wedged between a pedestal fan and the wall. It’s covered in a dark green tarp.
‘I was trying to move some things around,’ she says, ‘and I found this.’
She reaches for a corner of the tarp and tugs, letting it drift to the floor.
Henry’s red mountain bike is leaning against the wall.
* * *
We sit side by side, staring at the bike. The tarp is abandoned at our feet.
‘I thought the police might still have it,’ I say. ‘Or they’d returned it to the Weavers. Why is it here?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You think Ivy donated it?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Why is Bernie keeping it hidden?’
Sabeen shifts uncomfortably, staring down at her hands. I now realise the bike is only part of what she wants to share. She has something else to show me.
‘Sabeen?’
She glances over her shoulder towards the stairs, then reaches for a cardboard archive box sitting on the floor. She lifts the lid, revealing a row of suspension files, each one bulging with paperwork.
‘I swear, I would never normally go through someone’s personal items,’ she says. ‘It’s only because I’m trying to help Tom find bank statements and legal documents.’ She seems distressed, pressing a hand to her forehead. ‘They were in a white envelope, so I assumed it was paperwork …’
‘It’s okay,’ I say, although I have no idea what I’m reassuring her about.
She pulls a large paper envelope out of the box and hands it to me quickly, like she’s happy to be rid of it. She glances towards the stairs again before resettling on the wooden chair beside my footstool.
I tip the contents of the envelope into my hand. It’s a small stack of photos taken with a polaroid camera.
‘These are Bernie’s?’ I ask. Tom bought him a polaroid camera last Christmas because he couldn’t figure out how to take photos on his phone.
Sabeen nods. Her quiet demeanour is unnerving me; she’s usually so boisterous. She seems torn between wanting to study the polaroids as I flick through them, and looking anywhere else at all.
The first few are photos of a small painted kitchenette, the date and the words Work in Progress scribbled inside the white border. It takes me a moment to realise these pictures were taken inside Bernie’s caravan. In December, according to the handwritten caption. I glance at Sabeen. I don’t really understand why she’s showing me these or why she seems so upset. She twirls her finger, gesturing for me to keep flicking through them.
The next photo is of Henry. He has no shirt on.
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I glance at Sabeen and she seems uneasy. ‘There are more,’ she says.
Flicking through each photo, I feel a heavy weight settling inside my chest. There are seven of Henry in total, his cheeks flushed pink, smiling and laughing with a paintbrush in his hand. His naked torso has been photographed from a few different angles. One shot even has Henry’s head partially out of frame, the focus on his lower back and the top of his shorts. As with most polaroids, the skin tone is somewhat flat and overexposed, although there’s enough detail for them to seem gratuitous. The focus is not on Henry painting the caravan, but on Henry himself.
I’m not sure what to say. ‘These are …’
Sabeen winces. ‘I don’t know what to think.’
‘It’s Uncle Bernie, though. He’s like a grandfather to us.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘What are we supposed to do with them?’
I think of how Henry always talked about Bernie this and Bernie that. The old Westerns they watched together. The long summer days Henry spent helping Bernie renovate the caravan. None of that is making me feel any better. In fact, it makes me feel worse. Henry’s missing. And these photos seem … not right.
‘Should I take them to Doherty?’ I ask.
Before Sabeen can answer, we hear the door open at the top of the stairs. Sabeen throws me a panicked look as I gather up the photos like a deck of cards. Tom can’t know about these; he’s already stressed out of his mind. Something like this might tip him over the edge.
Heavy footsteps descend quickly, and I manage to slip the polaroids into my pocket just as Tom appears behind us, nudging his glasses to the top of his nose. We’re so busy making sure the photos are squirrelled away that we completely forget to drape the tarp back over Henry’s bike.
Tom’s eyes find it straightaway. His expression is one I can’t read. ‘Is that …?’
‘It is,’ Sabeen says, standing up. Her gaze darts from my face to my pocket, double-checking the photos are safely stowed. I give her a whisper of a nod and stand up as well.
‘Right. Okay,’ Tom says, shaking his head slightly. ‘That’s … unexpected. I didn’t realise Ivy had donated it.’ Seeing the bike here seems to have rattled him too. He casts an eye over the basement like there might be other surprises hidden in the clutter.
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