Deep Water

by Sarah Epstein

  ‘We don’t even know how this hat makes anyone guilty of anything. Who is it incriminating? About what exactly?’ Raf hoists himself up to sit on the countertop. ‘Henry could have hidden his hat at the bush hut himself. Or some local kids might have found it somewhere around town. Maybe at the train station near his bike.’

  ‘So why did they burn it?’

  ‘I dunno. Why does anyone do anything?’

  ‘Don’t take it to Doherty yet,’ I beg.

  ‘He’ll take it seriously.’

  ‘You reckon? Look at how he treated me when I went to him about the polaroids.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s different,’ Raf says. ‘Doherty already knew about those photos and he wanted to stop you from making accusations about Bernie that weren’t true.’

  ‘Geez, Raf. Whose side are you on?’

  He bugs his eyes. ‘Why do there have to be sides? I know you don’t like Doherty but you need to cut him some slack. We’re all working towards the same outcome. We all want to find Henry.’

  ‘Not all of us,’ I say. ‘Not whoever left me that threatening note.’

  ‘If that note really was for you and not your dad.’

  ‘Let’s be real here,’ I say. ‘Someone knows where Henry is and doesn’t want us to find him.’

  ‘I have a feeling you’ve already made up your mind who that someone is.’

  ‘Well, if we’re talking circumstantial evidence, it’s certainly stacking up.’

  Raf sighs. ‘If Mason really is guilty of something, Doherty will catch him out sooner or later.’

  ‘Yeah, later is the problem,’ I say. ‘What if none of this is concrete enough for Doherty to do anything? What if Mason runs?’

  He shakes his head slowly. ‘You’re overthinking this.’

  ‘Doherty will shut me down, Raf.’

  ‘He might not—’

  ‘He’ll contact my mother again!’ I say. ‘And she’ll haul me back to Sydney. This will be my last chance to find something irrefutable.’

  ‘It’s not your job to find evidence,’ Raf says.

  ‘Why not? Why shouldn’t it be my job?’

  ‘Because you’re not a detective.’

  ‘Neither is Doherty,’ I point out. ‘And yet we’re stuck with him for the whole case.’

  ‘Is there a case?’

  ‘You’ve been investigating this alongside me for the past week!’ My voice is overloud in the quiet house. It’s an effort to lower the volume and speak more slowly. ‘There are too many suspicious things going on here for this to be about Henry running away. Doherty would rather spout statistics and lack of resources than get off his backside and actually follow up leads.’ I scoff. ‘He’s worried about ruffling feathers in case he upsets someone. That’s rich, coming from him.’

  Raf exhales, long and low. He drops his head and stares into his lap, thinking things through. I can already tell I lost him, though, when I started making things personal. He thinks my emotions are clouding my judgement.

  ‘I want to find Henry too,’ he says, finally. ‘More than anything. Which is why I want to see Doherty in the morning and get him involved.’ His forehead is creased, eyes pleading. ‘Can we do that tomorrow? Together?’

  I nod my head robotically. It feels like giving up. As soon as Doherty questions Mason about his car being spotted on Railway Parade on the night of the storm, Mason will run. Everything will unravel and all of this will have been for nothing. We won’t find Henry.

  As I turn to walk out of the Nolans’ kitchen, Raf slides off the counter behind me.

  ‘Hey. Come on, Chlo …’

  Swallowing over a lump of disappointment, I stumble my way back to the motel on autopilot. I wish I knew how to strengthen the circumstantial evidence we have. If I can track down one more key piece that implicates Mason, Doherty will have to take me seriously.

  When I reach the motel driveway, I can see Luisa standing in the middle of the front lawn. She bends down and picks up a pansy plant lying near her feet.

  ‘Luisa?’ I say as I walk closer. The lawn is littered with tiny plants, their exposed roots pointing skyward. Every single pansy Luisa planted around the fountain has been uprooted and tossed across the grass. She’s already managed to collect a small pile. She gestures sadly at the fountain. It’s spewing rancid black water.

  ‘A guest called reception saying they thought the fountain might be broken,’ she says. ‘Then I find this …’ She motions at the ground. ‘You think it was Jack Doherty again?’

  ‘Where’s Dad?’

  ‘He’s down at the post office.’

  ‘Luisa,’ I say. ‘Did you remember to lock the office door when you came out?’

  She brings a hand to her mouth. ‘No. You don’t think—’

  I start running towards the office.

  ‘Chloe!’ she calls, following me, her sandals slapping against the driveway. ‘We should wait for your father!’

  Flinging open the glass door, I scour the reception room. I’m expecting chaos but everything is in order. I check the cash drawer and it’s still locked. Luisa catches up and stumbles through the doorway. The door to our unit is closed but unlocked. There’s no note pinned up anywhere either.

  Just a prank?

  No. Too coincidental.

  I march into our unit and let my eyes comb the kitchen and living room. No cupboards open, nothing taken. I peer inside Dad’s bedroom as I move my way down the hall. Even before I reach my own room I can see a weird shadow falling across the doorway. Slowing my pace, I gesture for Luisa to wait in the motel office, where she’s watching me nervously with the phone in her hand. Inside my bedroom, my mattress has been upended and is propped against the wall at a funny angle. Every single drawer in the tallboy is gaping open; both wardrobe doors too. Even my suitcase has been turned upside down all over the floor.

  ‘No,’ I say, moving to my bedside table. The drawers have been tampered with. ‘No!’

  Pulling the lower drawer out all the way, I dig my hand around underneath my socks and underwear. I’ve been keeping Henry’s postcard and note hidden at the back, but they’re no longer there. I remove the drawer altogether and check the floor underneath. Nothing.

  A loud swearword escapes me.

  ‘Chloe?’ comes Luisa’s worried voice from the office.

  ‘I’m fine, Luisa,’ I say. ‘Call Dad and tell him about the garden. You should probably take some photos before you start cleaning up.’

  I doubt it was a motel guest who called Luisa about the fountain; it was probably the same person who did this, giving themselves an opportunity to sneak through the reception area and search my room.

  My only evidence is gone. I’m left with no other choice. I need to move quickly if I don’t want Mason slipping through my fingers.

  My first instinct is to call Raf, but I know he won’t want any part in what I’m planning, not after the conversation we’ve just had. I call his sister instead.

  Sabeen answers after two rings.

  ‘Hey,’ I tell her. ‘I need your help with something. I’ll understand if you want to say no.’

  ‘Okay …’

  ‘What are you doing tonight?’

  She gives me a nervous laugh. ‘I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.’

  I glance towards the hallway and lower my voice. ‘We’re going to find out what Mason has buried in his backyard.’

  The storm

  ‘So this is the Turners’ place?’ Tom said above the howling wind. He stepped inside the stone mausoleum. His hooded jacket was slick with rain as he peeled it off and let it drop to the floor. Outside the narrow wooden doors the downpour had begun, water spilling off the mausoleum’s roof in a heavy stream. Both doors had windows with vertical bars and Mason was thankful the glass in each was still intact. The rain was coming in sideways when Mason ushered Tom inside. Tom said it had started pouring about five minutes into the fifteen-minute walk over from his grandparents’ house.

&nb
sp; ‘Jonathan, Polly and Oswald,’ Mason said, shining his phone light at the wall on one side where three horizontal crypts were stacked one on top of the other. There was nothing to see except slabs of marble with names carved into them. The other wall of the mausoleum was blank.

  ‘How the hell did you get in here?’

  ‘Lock’s busted,’ Mason said, bumping into the wall. Now that Tom was in here with him, he realised how cramped it was. The width and height of a standard door, and only as deep as it was high. Mason swayed slightly, his back finding the cool marble. He bent his knees and let himself slide down until his backside met the concrete floor.

  The wind rattled the doors and a flare of lightning glowed white through the windows. But the structure was sturdy. Solid. It had been here for over a hundred years. Tom studied the graveyard, probably to assess how far away Mason’s car was. He sighed, as though realising the storm had really set in.

  ‘Pull up a pew,’ Mason said, patting the concrete floor beside him. He placed his phone down with the light on and held up the whisky bottle. ‘Sounds like we’ll be here for a while.’

  Tom brought his hands to his hips and gave Mason the once over. Mason tried to appear more sober than he felt, and knew he was failing.

  ‘You actually going to talk about it this time?’ Tom asked. ‘Or am I merely a glorified babysitter?’

  Mason lifted the bottle to his lips. He’d asked Tom for a favour but hadn’t specified what it was. He was hoping Tom would see the predicament he was in and suggest Mason could crash with him and his grandparents for a few days. Maybe longer. This meant Mason would have to explain what had happened. In detail.

  ‘You’re gonna want to sit down,’ Mason said.

  Tom did as instructed, lowering himself to the floor beside Mason, so close their elbows touched. Mason offered him the whisky but Tom declined. Keeping his eyes on Polly Turner’s name etched into the marble wall, Mason talked Tom through the events of the evening.

  ‘Why does your mother say you owe her?’ Tom asked. ‘What exactly is she holding over you?’

  Mason confessed about what happened when Henry was six months old, how he’d slipped in the bath when Mason wasn’t watching.

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Tom said. ‘You were five years old! Where did she disappear to while you were watching her baby? Henry was her responsibility, not yours.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m like her, Tommy.’

  ‘You’re not.’

  ‘What’s that saying about inheriting the sins of our parents?’

  Tom scoffed. ‘Then I’m screwed as well.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’ Mason smiled, then quickly grew serious as he turned to take in Tom’s profile. ‘I look up to you, man.’

  Tom smirked, shaking his head a little. ‘Come on …’

  ‘No, seriously, I do. I admire you. Your circumstances have been cruddy too, but you’ve managed to keep your head down and work hard, and now you’ve earned yourself a ticket out of here. I’m never getting out.’

  Tom shifted to look at Mason, the seat of his jeans scraping on the dusty floor. ‘How is that possibly true? You can do anything you want. You could leave tomorrow.’

  ‘Where the hell would I go?’

  ‘You could travel around. Find work.’

  ‘I have no money. And I failed my HSC.’ Mason picked at the label of the whisky bottle. ‘Who’d want to hire me?’

  ‘Heaps of places. You could work in retail, or find another mechanic who’d be willing to take you on. Stu Macleod would write you a reference.’

  ‘Where would I live?’

  Tom made a small growling noise, half amused, half exasperated. ‘God, I don’t know! I obviously haven’t given your future much thought. I’m nervous enough about my own.’

  ‘Nervous?’ Mason shook his head. ‘What do you have to be nervous about, Mr Brainiac Scholarship? Making everybody so damn proud all the time.’

  Tom snorted. ‘Sorry if what I’m doing inconveniences you.’

  ‘It bloody does!’ Mason said with mock indignation. They both sniggered and Mason took another large swallow of whisky. ‘I’m just jealous. You know exactly what you want and how to get it. You’ve always kept your eye on the prize, consistent and steady.’

  ‘Now there’s a killer epitaph for my headstone,’ Tom said, nodding towards the rain-soaked graveyard. ‘“Here lies Tom Lawson. He was consistent and steady.”’

  Mason shrugged. ‘Hey, don’t knock it, mate. It’s what we all love about you.’

  Tom glanced at him without responding and Mason suddenly heard how his words were suspended in the air between them. In the close quarters of the dank mausoleum they felt obvious and weighty, heavy with meaning.

  A deafening thundercrack startled them, making them laugh. The wind howled outside like the roar of a freight train, and a large puddle was beginning to spread beneath the doors. Tom got up to peer through the windows again.

  ‘This storm is wild,’ he said. ‘Places must be flooded. I think one of those big fir trees has come down.’

  Mason attempted to stand but the whisky was really taking effect. It made his limbs rubbery and his lips tingly, and it gave him a pleasant floaty sensation along his spine that made him feel a little bit invincible. He stayed where he was, watching the puddle creep closer. They were well protected from the elements between these stone and marble walls. If he had a sleeping bag and a pillow, he’d quite happily sleep in here all night.

  ‘Come on,’ Tom said after a little while, retrieving his jacket and shrugging it on. ‘It’s starting to die down a bit. We should probably make a break for it if we’re going to walk back to mine.’

  The relief was staggering. Mason wouldn’t have to go home to face that woman and that mess. At least, not today.

  Mason held his hand out. ‘A lil’ assistance,’ he said.

  Tom grabbed Mason’s arm with both hands and hauled him to his feet. With no control over his momentum, Mason kept going and bumped straight into Tom’s chest. They both pummelled into the wall. Tom’s head whacked into the marble and he jerked forwards in pain, headbutting Mason in the forehead.

  ‘Ow!’ Tom said, the frames of his glasses digging into the skin near his eye. He rubbed his head.

  ‘Lemme see,’ Mason said, squinting at Tom’s glasses. ‘Not broken. But I think I left a smudge.’

  Mason was suddenly aware of how close they were standing, the front of his jacket brushing up against Tom’s. His best friend’s face was only inches away. And Mason felt it; the hammer of his heart against his ribs. His skin came alive like a thousand pinpricks in a steaming hot shower.

  Everything seemed so simple.

  He slid his hand around the back of Tom’s neck and leaned into him, pressing his lips up against Tom’s. He felt a rush of light-headedness and the recognition of something he’d been trying to understand for years.

  I am not empty.

  I am not cold.

  At that very minute he knew exactly who he was.

  Then Mason realised Tom’s lips were frozen beneath his. His back was rigid, stiff arms pinned to his sides. Tom’s mouth broke away and he turned his face towards Mason’s shoulder.

  ‘No, mate,’ he said. ‘This isn’t what I …’

  His voice trailed off as he dropped his gaze to the ground.

  This isn’t what I want, Mason finished for him. You’re not what I want.

  Tom took a subtle step back, and to Mason it was like a chasm had opened up between them.

  Mason blew out a heavy breath. ‘Damn,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I didn’t realise,’ Tom said. ‘I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea.’

  Mason rubbed one hand over his face and held the other up to Tom: please stop talking. Self-loathing soaked through him, so absolute, so staggering, he almost needed to sit down.

  ‘It’s the whisky,’ Mason said, looking everywhere but at Tom. ‘I’m only mucking around.’

  Tom gave an embarrass
ed sort of sigh, as though he knew that all the whisky did was loosen Mason’s restraint enough for the truth to slip out.

  The shame was overwhelming. It was a feeling Mason was never quite prepared for, even though he’d had more than enough practise with it over the years.

  ‘I’ve gotta go,’ he said, fumbling for the car keys in his pocket and accidentally kicking over the whisky bottle. It spun in circles across the concrete floor, ricocheting off the marble before slowing to a stop, pointing at Tom like a twisted game of spin the bottle.

  ‘You can’t drive,’ Tom said.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ Mason’s voice sounded weak and strange, even to him.

  ‘Walk back to my place with me.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Mason said, pushing past Tom to get to the doors. ‘Not now.’

  Minutes ago he’d welcomed the intimate space of the mausoleum. Now he found it suffocating and claustrophobic. He was grateful to stagger out into the muddy graveyard, a cool southerly biting at his skin.

  It was still raining steadily, making the ground slippery underfoot. Tom shadowed him the whole way back to the car.

  ‘Give me the keys,’ he said, grabbing hold of Mason’s arm. ‘You’re too drunk.’

  ‘What do you care?’ Mason mumbled. ‘Just let me go home.’

  ‘Give them to me.’ Tom yanked at his arm again, shaking the keys loose. They landed in a muddy puddle at the foot of a headstone.

  Mason and Tom lurched for them at the same time.

  Now

  We reach the Weavers’ place by half past one, having made the trip over on foot. The night is clear and cool, a light breeze playing with the dark strands around Sabeen’s face as she glances over her shoulder at me.

  ‘Lovely evening for some trespassing,’ she says, throwing me a nervous smile. I return it with a weak one of my own and swallow over the dry spot in my throat. It’s good of her to do this with me; I really didn’t think she’d agree. But after everything that’s happened, even Sabeen’s willingness to give Mason the benefit of the doubt only stretches so far.

  ‘Remember, the bushland behind the house is not private property,’ I say. ‘We have every right to be there.’