Deep Water

by Sarah Epstein

  Raf ’s hand shoots out and grabs the hat. He pulls it into his lap under the table, frowning at me. ‘We’re not doing this right now.’

  ‘What is it?’ Rina asks.

  ‘Nothing.’ Raf gives me a pointed look. ‘We’ll talk about it later. When everybody’s calm.’

  ‘It’s Henry’s hat,’ Mason says, his voice hoarse. He reaches over the table. ‘Give it to me, Raf.’

  Raf closes his eyes. ‘Listen. I think we should—’

  ‘Give it to me!’ Mason half-stands, shoving Raf in the shoulder and knocking him into the back of the booth.

  ‘Hey!’ Sabeen says, reaching for Mason’s arm. He shrugs her off.

  ‘Give it to me!’ Mason growls. He suddenly thrashes in his seat, trapped beside the window like a bear in a cage. Liv and Sally are already rushing over from the kitchen.

  ‘Calm down!’ Rina says, shrinking into her seat on the opposite side of the booth. Tom is standing, backing away from the table. I stand too, giving Liv and Sally room to move in.

  ‘Let me out, Sab,’ Mason says through gritted teeth, his breathing laboured like he’s about to blow up. Sabeen quickly slides out of the booth.

  ‘Mason, love, what’s going on?’ Liv says, her eyebrows crushing together. ‘How can we help?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I need to leave.’ Mason comes face to face with me as he climbs out of the booth. Looming over me, he says, ‘You really hate me that much?’

  I don’t understand what he means.

  Tom steps forwards.

  ‘Oh, what Tom? What?’ Mason says, turning on him. ‘You in on this little ambush too? I always thought you had my back. What a joke.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Tom says. ‘I’m out of here.’ He strides over to the door. ‘Sorry, Sally. Sorry, Liv.’ He shoves the door open and is through the ribbon curtain in a blink.

  Mason walks towards the back of the restaurant and disappears through the rear door.

  ‘I’m leaving too,’ Rina says, hitching her bag over her shoulder. ‘This was such a bad idea.’

  Sabeen’s expression is a mixture of hurt and helplessness. ‘I just thought we could all—’

  ‘Stop trying to force it,’ Rina says sadly. ‘Can’t you see we’re not those kids anymore? Everything’s different now.’ She shakes her head and walks away, leaving through the same door Tom did.

  I stand in stunned silence with the Nolans.

  ‘Well,’ Sally says to her wife. ‘I don’t know what we put in the drinks tonight, but I think I need a stiff one myself.’

  ‘Hope you’re hungry, Rafi,’ Liv says as she and Sally head back to the kitchen. ‘We’re going to have a lot of leftover pizza.’

  I take a seat in the booth opposite Raf.

  He holds up his hands. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’ I hang my head. ‘It was the way he turned on Rina. The way he blatantly lied.’

  ‘You can’t help yourself,’ Raf says.

  Sabeen sits beside me, looking utterly miserable. ‘She’s a fixer.’

  ‘Where’s the hat?’ I say, holding out my hand.

  ‘No way,’ Raf says. ‘I’m hanging onto this.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘As a heart attack. You can’t be trusted. It’s going in the vault.’

  ‘If the two of you don’t mind,’ Sabeen says, ‘I’d love to know exactly what the hell is going on.’

  We fill her in over dinner as Liv and Sally head home. I help Raf and Sabeen wash up and wipe down the kitchen, and by the time we’ve swept and locked up, I’ve blown right past my curfew. I call Dad to let him know Raf and Sabeen will drive me back.

  The town’s main street is dead as always on a Sunday evening. Raf switches off the pizzeria’s flashing lights and pulls the door shut behind us with a clunk that echoes up the empty block. There’s a strong whiff of smoke in the air but it’s too warm for fireplaces, and I wonder who could be burning off at this hour. We’re just opening the doors of the silver hatchback when we hear a commotion further up the road. Someone’s yelling. A car has pulled in at a funny angle outside the IGA, the driver’s door hanging open. My eyes are drawn to a weird orange glow in the windows of Shallow Vintage Wares.

  ‘What is—?’ Sabeen starts. She’s cut off by the sound of shattering glass.

  Flames lick around the edges of an empty window frame, crackling up into the verandah eaves at the front of the store.

  Bernie’s shop is on fire.

  The storm

  He put his shoulder into the door. Again. And again. Henry’s bed shunted out of the way bit by bit until Mason was able to squeeze through the gap. Straightaway he could see the venetian blind yanked up at a crooked angle, the window gaping open. Outside, the long grass swayed in a blustery wind that had arrived ahead of the storm.

  Henry was gone.

  Mason kicked the side of the mattress and it toppled onto the floor. He paced the room, his anger quickly spiralling into hopelessness. What to do? What to do? He couldn’t salvage this. He was beaten. He was working so hard to improve his circumstances, but his family kept tearing him back down. They didn’t even like him, they didn’t even want him around, but they wouldn’t let him leave either. He felt like a puppet, strung up and manipulated, dead on the inside.

  Enough.

  Enough of this. He couldn’t be here anymore. He needed to go. And even if he was broke and living in his car, at least he would be living. He’d been struggling with the idea of leaving Henry alone here with their mother, but the little turd had betrayed him without a second thought. It was his turn to fend for himself, just like Mason had had to do for the both of them.

  His mother was crunching through broken glass in her Ugg boots as Mason walked down the hallway past the kitchen. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about any of it. Let her clean up the mess for once. He felt removed from this scene, as though it was some kind of movie he was watching from afar. He was conscious of his arms and legs only, the effort needed to move them, the motion of one foot in front of the other, all the way to the front door.

  She yelled something as Mason slammed the door behind him, a strong wind blasting him in the face and drowning out her words. All he could think about was running, and driving, and quiet, and darkness. He thought about numbing brown liquid slipping down his throat and warming the hollows of his gnawing emptiness.

  He found the whisky bottle stashed in the Subaru’s back seat and took a decent swig before climbing behind the wheel. He’d bought it last night after Rina got stuck into him in the fridge section of the IGA about not answering her calls or texts. He’d only popped in for milk, and yet there she was marching down the aisle towards him with a basket of groceries and a frown. She’d accused him of wanting somebody else and being too gutless to tell her it was over, and he hadn’t said anything because she was absolutely right. Other shoppers turned to stare and Mason was transported back to his childhood, the spilled charity pins at the checkout, the way people tutted and shook their heads.

  Lightning forked in the sky behind the mountains and thunder rumbled a few seconds later. Incoming, he thought, though there was no sign of rain yet; it was just all wind and bluster. Mason drove without purpose, sipping from his bottle, enjoying the empty roads, speeding up and falling back, driving round and round in circles. He wanted to go to the motel, to the room Mr Baxter kept free for him. He’d stayed there only a couple of times, and always tried to sneak out in the morning when no one was around. He’d leave the room exactly as he found it, not wanting to be any trouble, in the hope it would be an open-ended offer. Even if he didn’t stay there often, it was a comfort to know he could if he needed to.

  But Henry would have run off to the motel. To Chloe. Mason wouldn’t be welcome there, not after Chloe had heard about him losing control again and scaring Henry.

  He blew straight past the turnoff for the motel and kept driving as the whisky loosened his concentration. He steered his way towards the graveyard and
sat in the car with the engine running and headlights on, staring out across the headstones. He pulled out his phone and opened his message thread with Tom. Another mouthful of whisky. What the hell was he going to say?

  I need you, he typed, then hit the backspace key just as quickly.

  I need you to come. Delete, delete, delete.

  I need help.

  He stared at those words for a long time, until his phone’s screen went dark. He knew it was true – he felt like he was drowning – but he’d never asked for help before because he didn’t think anyone could.

  Mason switched off the car’s engine and got out, trying to shove his car keys into his pocket and missing. It took much longer than it should have to retrieve them from the ground. Now that he was standing, Mason felt the full effect of the whisky, his gait more of a stagger as he took a cobbled path deeper into the graveyard. As soon as he deviated from the path, his shoe caught the corner of a flat gravestone and he tripped face first into the grass. It seemed easier to stay down.

  Wriggling onto his back, Mason stared up at the swirling clouds. The sky lit up so bright for a second he had to close his eyes. Dry leaves whipped around headstones, flicking past him as the wind continued to push through. He could smell rain in the air a moment before the first fat drop fell from the sky.

  Mason pulled out his phone again and squinted at the unsent message.

  I need help.

  He jabbed the backspace key again and replaced it with a new request.

  I need a favour.

  He hit Send.

  Tom replied in seconds. Mason knew he would.

  Now

  On Monday morning, the remains of Shallow Vintage Wares shiver like a dripping charcoal skeleton. A few structural beams still stand, but the rest of the roof has collapsed inwards onto the large pile of charred rubble below. The police have cordoned off the site and surrounding shops until a structural assessment can be done and everything nearby is deemed safe.

  ‘That’s all we need,’ I hear one customer say to another at the supermarket checkout. ‘More shops closed down. This town is dying a slow death.’

  There have been whispers about arson, although most people think one of the old floor lamps is likely to be the culprit. Fire investigators will confirm it. So far the only information they’ve made public is that it seems to have started in the basement.

  The basement. Where Henry’s bike was stored.

  I pay for two fruit juices at the checkout and head back out onto Railway Parade, jogging across the street to where Tom is sitting on a wooden bench outside the hairdressers. It’s directly across from where his grandparents’ shop used to be, and he’s staring at the ruins with a slightly stunned expression on his face. He’s barely slept. His glasses are crooked and he’s wearing a faded hoodie and tracksuit pants. He should probably go home and try to sleep some more; there’s not much he can do here anyway.

  I offer him a juice. He wrinkles his nose and declines. It’s not long before he’s digging for his chewable Quick-Eze.

  ‘I feel nauseous, to be honest,’ he says. ‘Is this shock?’

  ‘Maybe.’ I shrug. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘I keep thinking about all those old photo albums and books and antiques,’ he says. ‘All those collectables Grandpa built up over decades. All gone. Lost forever.’

  ‘It’s terrible,’ I agree. ‘But it’s just stuff. At least you’re all safe and nobody was inside when it happened.’

  Tom nods, looking down at his hands. ‘We’ll be okay,’ he says. ‘Grandpa has insurance. Thank god we managed to get a whole heap of paperwork backed up to the cloud.’

  ‘Guess it’s forced retirement for him now. Maybe he and Rose will finally get to use that caravan.’

  I’m trying to make Tom feel better, but I’m still conflicted about Bernie. I feel guilty for thinking the worst about the polaroids, yet I also wonder what else might have been hidden in that basement that’s now been destroyed. I certainly wouldn’t wish a fire on anybody, though. It’s a huge loss to the Lawson family and Tom is taking it particularly hard.

  ‘In all honesty, the shop was probably getting beyond him anyway,’ Tom admits. ‘Maybe one day we’ll see this as a blessing in disguise. Right now, it’s pretty tough.’

  I reach an arm across his shoulders and pull him to my side. We sit in silence and watch the remaining smoke curl in tendrils around the shop’s burnt carcass.

  ‘If it was deliberate,’ I say, ‘they’ll catch the person who did it.’

  ‘I know.’ Tom’s voice is husky, like he might be holding back tears.

  ‘You got this, Tom,’ I say, wrapping my other arm around him and pulling him into a hug. ‘You’ll pick yourself up again. You always do.’

  He nods, the side of his face against mine. He’s quiet for a moment. Then, ‘It’s not true is it?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What Mason said last night?’

  ‘Mason said a lot of things.’ I move to pull away. Tom hangs on. ‘Which part?’

  ‘Am I friend-zoned?’ Tom asks.

  I stiffen. I drop my arms and he does too. ‘Friend-zoned with me?’

  He leans back against the seat, facing the road again. ‘Is it such a wild concept, you and me?’

  ‘Not at all. I guess I never really …’

  ‘Forget I said anything.’

  ‘Tom.’

  He takes off his glasses and cleans them on the front of his hoodie. ‘Really. It’s fine. You’ve answered my question without us needing to have a whole awkward conversation about it.’

  ‘I really value our friendship,’ I say, knowing that’s probably not what he wants to hear. It’s true, but admittedly it sounds like a terrible line.

  ‘Is it Raf?’ Tom asks, chancing a quick glimpse at my face.

  I have to be honest with him. ‘Yes.’

  He pulls his lips into a tight line like he’s tasted something sour. The moment passes quickly. ‘It’s all good,’ he says coldly.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Onwards and upwards and all that.’ He turns away towards the road.

  With reluctance, I push myself up off the seat. I really don’t want to leave Tom alone here like this, but it’s clear he’d rather I make myself scarce.

  ‘I’ll see you a bit later, okay?’ I say. ‘Tom?’

  ‘Bye,’ he says quietly, without looking at me.

  * * *

  After running errands for Luisa, I go back past the hairdressers to see if Tom is still around. The wooden bench is empty. It gives me a heavy feeling for the entire walk home. I know how I felt when I thought Raf wasn’t interested for all those months – I was crushed. Tom will need a friend, and ironically it can’t be me.

  You home? I text Raf.

  I bypass the motel and head up to the Nolans’ place anyway. Raf replies to say he’s there as I’m walking across their garden path. Sally and Liv are both outside, enjoying their only day off by tackling the weeds. I fill them in on the latest about the fire.

  ‘Sabeen home?’ I ask casually. Liv looks at her wife and they both hide their smiles.

  ‘She’s gone over to see Rina,’ Sally says. ‘Raf ’s here, though. Will he do?’

  ‘Geez, you don’t have to make me sound like a consolation prize,’ Raf says, appearing on the patio. ‘I am your firstborn, after all.’

  I follow him into the house and wait until his mums are out of earshot before I start talking.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘New theory.’

  ‘Here we go …’ He rolls his eyes and leads me into the kitchen. ‘At least let me be caffeinated for this.’ He flicks the kettle on to boil.

  ‘Fire destroys all traces, right?’

  ‘“Except for when it doesn’t,”’ Raf says, quoting me back to myself.

  ‘I think Mason set the fire at Bernie’s shop.’

  ‘Riiight.’ Raf shakes his head, both baffled and amused. ‘Um, why?’

  ‘To destroy
Henry’s bike. Mason knew it was in the basement – he overheard me telling Doherty about it at the police station. If Mason did plant the bike at the train station, he might have been paranoid about his prints or DNA or something turning up on it.’

  Raf scoops a spoonful of instant coffee into a mug. ‘You want one?’

  ‘This is important, Raf. Where’s Henry’s hat?’

  ‘In the vault.’

  I glance over my shoulder into his bedroom. His backpack is tucked underneath his desk.

  ‘Don’t even think about touching the vault,’ he says, more serious than joking.

  ‘What are you going to do with it?’

  ‘Take it to Sergeant Doherty first thing in the morning. Constable Deakin says he’ll be back from Goulburn late tonight. It’s your choice if you want to come with me and tell him everything.’

  ‘Why? So Doherty can file it all and send us on our way?’

  Raf tilts his head. ‘Give the guy a bit of credit. Doherty’s not that useless. You know he actually wants to find Henry too, right? It’s kind of his job.’

  I release an impatient sigh, my eyelids fluttering closed. ‘I know he does. My issue is how seriously we’ll be taken if the evidence isn’t strong enough. Doherty thinks I’m some kind of serial pest with a grudge against the Weavers.’

  Raf raises his eyebrows like he thinks that assessment might be spot on.

  I fold my arms. ‘Doherty won’t do anything unless there’s a way to link all of these pieces of evidence together. I’ve watched enough crime docos to know that by themselves they’re circumstantial.’

  Raf blinks a couple of times. ‘I’ve clearly been watching more sci-fi than true crime. What does circumstantial mean exactly?’

  ‘It’s sort of indirect. Like, it points to someone being guilty but doesn’t conclusively prove it. The problem is, it might not be incriminating enough unless we find more. Or it’s linked to direct evidence.’

  ‘What would that be?’

  ‘Like a witness. Or an admission from the guilty party.’