Across the Water Read online

  ‘I miss you already. We’ve barely even had time to speak this morning.’

  ‘I know. And I’ll miss you like crazy. It’s not ideal, I know.’ He pins me with that intense gaze of his that makes me feel both treasured and unsettled. ‘God knows this is the last thing I want to do.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  Adam’s gaze softens. ‘Don’t be. I understand.’ He presses his lips to my forehead. ‘Take the chance to relax. Remember what the doctor said about exercising and keeping up the meds.’

  I nod, once.

  ‘And now I really have to go.’ He kisses me, too briefly, and lifts his satchel over his shoulder. ‘Bye, darling.’

  And just like that, I’m alone.

  ***

  8:30am

  Back in London, I’d be on my way to work by now. Hell, I’d probably have already made my way from Liverpool Street to Euston, stealing sips from my precariously balanced refillable coffee cup, having inserted myself into a crammed tube carriage and lugged that cumbersome old briefcase I keep meaning to replace the two and a half blocks to my office building. I can almost smell the petrol fumes, the summer air, the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and bacon grease.

  As a case worker for a counselling and respite centre for woman in crisis, my job could get pretty intense. You’d think I’d be grateful for the break from it all, but in truth it was a matter of necessity. After my client, Christy and her six-month-old baby Bella were found murdered, I didn’t take it too well. I felt guilty, started having nightmares. Night terrors more like. I felt I’d failed her as her case worker. I should have seen the signs, listened to her fears. This had never happened to me before, and I simply couldn’t process it.

  And then it was politely suggested by my boss that I might want to take some compassionate leave. They provide free counselling for employees, he said. You’ve been through a trauma; it’s the best thing for you.

  I took the hint.

  I saw a counsellor, was put on some meds and over the last few months I’ve been improving. But I know Adam worries, and he wishes we didn’t have to go through all this business with selling the house when I’m still recovering. I stare out of the grimy kitchen window as I pour the cold remains of my coffee down the sink. I find myself longing to be with Adam in Sydney, but if we’re to get out of here as soon as is humanly possible – and God knows that’s what I want – someone is going to have to sort through and get rid of all of Tim’s things of which, thankfully, there are few. I thought Adam might want to do it, but he’s said he doesn’t care what happens to any of it. I suppose I’ll see if there’s anything of value to sell and then throw away the rest.

  Pinpricks of light sparkle like stars on the surface of the creek and the houses over the other side, shadowed by night when I saw them last, stand gleaming white in their grand, colonial-style glory. Large bay windows look out like lidded eyes and lush green lawns slope down towards the shimmering water.

  London feels a world away from here.

  I look for the woman from last night, but her curtains are drawn. The house to the right appears empty, but on the left, in the least grand of the three houses, the one with the peeling paint and shabby awnings, the curtains are open on the top floor. There’s movement in the window. A man – no, a boy? I can’t tell as his back is to me – stands shirtless, lifting weights. I watch him for a moment, mesmerised by his rhythmic movements. Then I shake my head and look away.

  Someone’s in the backyard of the house on the right. It’s surrounded by a beautiful garden, full of brightly coloured flowers and lush with shrubs and trees. A woman stands beneath a row of trees that descend in size from left to right. What did Adam say her name was? Erica. Erica and Samir. She’s on her knees on the grass, her face in her hands.

  It’s hard to tell from here, but it looks like she might be crying. Short, pale hair fluttering in the breeze, Erica stands and pulls something from her pocket and runs it across her face. A tissue, most likely. She reaches up towards one of the four trees and runs a hand over the leaves and then – wait, is it my imagination or did she just plant a kiss on one of the branches? I rub my eyes. Ridiculous. I must be seeing things.

  I make another coffee, hoping to muster the energy for a jog. It’s the least I can do to occupy myself since I’ve sworn I won’t look at or touch anything work-related (doctor’s orders, literally) and the thought of starting on the piles of junk makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon. Besides, it might be nice to see the town, take in the scenery, ‘let myself relax’, as Adam says. Pearl Bay is ‘a little slice of paradise’, they tell me. Might as well make the most of it.

  ***

  1:15pm

  I wasn’t hungry – I rarely am, these days – but I forced down some soggy, left-over salad and managed to locate my running shoes at the bottom of a suitcase, and now I’m looking for a way across this God-forsaken creek. Adam’s taken the motorboat, of course, and I’m not keen on trying out the rickety-looking thing with oars. I’m sure he said there was a footbridge not far along the way, but I’ve been walking for at least five minutes now and all I’ve encountered is sludgy, marshy earth and dense bush.

  I hadn’t known I’d be so isolated here. Adam painted this stop gap as if we’d be on an extended honeymoon. It’s a house by the water in sunny Australia, after all! But the reality is entirely the contrary. It’s creepy, if I’m honest. I’m trying not to get lost down a rabbit’s hole of negativity, but I really am starting to think we could have organised things a bit more sensibly. That I could have had some forewarning of what staying in this place, if only for a few weeks or months, would really be like.

  The sun is so hot here, even at this time of year, and despite the wet season being over and winter creeping in, Adam’s warned me it can still get humid during the day. I wipe the beads of perspiration from the back of my neck, remembering how I hate the heat.

  Something crunches loudly under my foot and I rear back in fright. I look down to see the long, curled up body of a snake.

  ‘Fuck!’ I stumble backwards, my heart pumping, before realising that it’s not a live snake, merely its discarded skin.

  A whimper of relief escapes before I feel a surge of anger. For fuck’s sake, let’s admit it, this place is a nightmare. I’m either going to be killed be some horrible Australian creature or go mad imagining I might. How could anyone choose to live in a place like this?

  Gathering myself, I trudge along, determined to find the footbridge and, in turn, civilisation. After a minute or two, the rhythmic thud of my shoes on the pebbly shore sounds suddenly amplified. Confused, I stop for a moment, listening. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Silence. I whirl around, straining to see through the dense trees, but I can’t see anyone. My pulse leaps in my throat. No one lives over this side of the creek. Adam said the other two houses are abandoned. Why would anyone be here?

  It’s then that I notice it. In a small clearing just a metre ahead, something dangles from a tree. Squinting, I see it’s a plastic baby doll. Something has been placed on its head, vaguely representing hair – dark green tendrils of seaweed, still glistening with moisture, and its painted eyes stare vacantly ahead.

  An unpleasant tingle travels down my spine. There’s what looks to be the remains of a campfire, some empty beer cans and a pair of tattered and muddied trainers strewn about beneath the doll. Has someone been camping over here?

  There’s the crunch of leaves behind me, and instinctively I break into a run, feeling foolish after a time when no one materialises. I tell myself the campsite could have been there for a number of days – weeks, even. Except the seaweed was still wet …

  I’m out of breath when I finally reach the bridge. It’s made of wood that looks partially rotted and is covered in moss. I sigh in disappointment, unsure I can trust it to carry my weight. Vines dangle from two large, moss-covered trees flanking its entrance, and the other side seems very far away. The river has widened here and when I lo
ok into its murky depths I can no longer see the bottom. From the direction of the water flow, it seems the tide is coming in.

  I shiver, suddenly cold despite the humidity. It seems everything is damp here – the air, the earth, the plants. No wonder the house is full of mould.

  I hesitate, pressing the ball of my foot down onto the first mossy plank. To my surprise, it doesn’t give an inch. Tentatively placing one foot after the other, I make my way across, breathing a sigh of relief when I reach the other side. I’m safe.

  Chapter 6

  Liz

  June, 2017

  Monday, 4:15pm

  I’ve made it across the three-mile beach that runs along the other side of town, parallel to the creek, and now my lungs ache with each breath. I’m out of practice. Adam and I spent our three-week honeymoon over-indulging on everything imaginable (not to mention sending us knee-deep into debt) and now I’m paying for it in more ways than one.

  The sun has passed over the mountain and a fog has descended. The air is thick with moisture and beads of perspiration cling to my forehead. I hadn’t realised how long I’d been gone, how early it would grow dark.

  I reach Cockle Street on my way back to the house and stop to admire the three matching houses all in a row. They’re vastly different street-side; less decorative than the grand facades facing the creek. I’m staring at the house on the left with it’s perfectly trimmed hedge when a heinous screeching fills the air. I stop and cover my ears, looking up towards the sound. A flock of large white birds with yellow crests fill a tall, gnarly tree, one of several lining the street. They’re making an awful sound, like harpies squawking, and then another sound chimes in, battling to be heard over the din. The baby crying again, I think, but it isn’t that.

  I turn to see the red-haired woman, Dee, standing in her driveway, the blue door slightly ajar. A fair-haired woman – Erica, I assume – is blocking her exit, waving her arms, screaming something incomprehensible, too hard to hear from where I stand, beneath the raucous birds. Dee’s cowering, shoulders hunched, head down. She’s shaking her head, the baby clutched to her chest, its chubby legs flexing at her hips.

  I feel suddenly too visible, exposed. Should I go over there, check everything’s okay? Wrapping my arms across my chest against the sudden gust of cold air, I hesitate. Dee looks defeated. She stands, jiggling the baby mechanically, and lets Erica’s tirade crash over her, and I feel a rush of protectiveness. Leave her alone! She’s holding a baby, for fuck’s sake.

  It’s then I realise who Dee reminds me of. My stomach clenches just as I feel the familiar pang of guilt. And when the baby begins to wail, I clap my hand over my mouth, closing my eyes against an unwanted image.

  The urge to intervene has vanished. I walk fast, pulling my hood up around my face, hurrying along the narrow end of Cockle Street which tapers to the creek’s entrance. I’m not looking forward to crossing that bridge again, to the trek through the bush, but I do want to get warm and pour myself a glass of wine. As I pass the final house there’s a rustling in the bushes to my left. I lose my footing, tripping over a crack in the path as a tall shadow enters my peripheral vision.

  My breath catches as I take in the tangled beard, tattered beanie and fierce eyes. The irises are piercing, electric blue against deeply tanned skin. The man makes a sound like a growl and I give an involuntary yelp, side-step him and run like hell.

  ***

  8:48pm

  Adam’s still not back. I spoke to him earlier; he was sorry I’d had a shock but explained there are plenty of fishermen about town. ‘He was most likely heading over to collect oysters,’ he told me. ‘There are oyster beds along our side of the creek. I’m so sorry, darling, I should have warned you.’

  ‘Yes, you should have,’ I grumbled, feeling foolish. I allow the familiar sound of his voice to soothe away my fears at being left alone in this house, especially after the campsite I spotted earlier. But since ending the call they’ve crept back in, whispering that ‘someone’s out there’, even though I know I’m just shaken from my earlier scare. Was the man I saw the one who’s been camping over here? Or was he just a local fisherman, like Adam said?

  I check the lock on the bathroom door twice before I shower, startling at every sound as I stand beneath the spray.

  I knew Adam would be late, but it’s disappointing all the same. It’s a two-hour commute one-way to Sydney and that’s excluding the short boat ride across the creek. I don’t know how anyone could live here permanently. And they don’t, really. Not on this side of the water. People eventually figured out that a nice view wasn’t adequate compensation for the damp and the mould, the proximity to tangled bushland and marshy swamp, the boat-only access. Everyone except Tim Dawson, who apparently thought there was nowhere better on earth.

  I was trying to be positive for Adam when I told him the buyers that have paid the deposit will come through with the settlement, but the possibility they won’t does worry me. I won’t be able to rest until it’s finalised; the thought of living here indefinitely terrifies me. I think I’d go mad.

  But no matter how I feel, I have to try to be strong for Adam. He’s been through enough, and I know he worries about me as it is. This is a partnership, the first real one I’ve had in truth. Men used to be just for fun, for distraction, but Adam’s changed all that. I’m married now. I have to be prepared to pull my weight.

  I pull the musty blanket up to my chin, glass of red in hand, watching through the loft window as the lights flicker on across the water. People arriving home after a day’s work, no doubt exhausted after the long commute, happy to be home. Since there isn’t even a bloody television here, it seems they’re all I have for company.

  Adam says the houses on this side of the creek are old fisherman’s cottages, and that back in the thirties when this town was established the wealthy lived on the main land and the fishermen lived over here, in the boat-access only part of town. Now Oyster Creek is more of a suburban commuter town, and all but this house across the water have been abandoned. There are still fishermen, apparently, but every sensible one has chosen to live on the ‘good side’ of town. The man on the left – it’s definitely a young man, not a boy – appears, passing across the upstairs window and through a door, emerging a minute later with a towel around his waist. He’s attractive in a generic, athletic sort of way. Probably an Aussie, born and raised with a surfboard under one arm.

  It appears that the top floor of the house is self-contained: kitchenette, bathroom, lounge chair, wardrobe. I don’t see a bed, but perhaps there’s one on the left, out of sight. Is he travelling? Renting? Living alone? He looks like someone who’d park himself, if temporarily, in a generic seaside town somewhere on the Australian coast. The towel begins to slip from his hips and I quickly look away.

  The couple on the right, Erica and Samir, are in the kitchen, sitting at an island, bathed in red-gold light from an overhead lamp. Erica stands and runs fingers through her short, light-coloured hair. There’s something about her stance, her movements, that makes her seem tense. What was she shouting at Dee for earlier? She picks up a wine glass and tips her head back to drink. The man sits with his head in his hands. I wonder if they’re fighting, and if so, what about?

  I kneel on the window seat and press my nose to the glass. I’ve left the light on downstairs but up here it’s dark, rendering me invisible. I feel like a voyeur – and I suppose I am in this moment – and it gives me a guilty thrill. As I lean forward, my fingers touch something cold and hard. I pick up the thing, half buried in dusty cushions, and it’s heavy and black. Binoculars.

  I snort and put them aside. Tim Dawson and his birdwatching. I always thought it was such a strange, isolating hobby. But then, as Adam says, he was a fairly isolated man. Just like this house.

  Erica has put down her glass and is stirring something on the stove now. The man stands behind her, puts his arms around her but she tenses and pulls away. She turns to face him and points an accusing
finger to her left. A light blinks on in that direction, as if her pointing triggered it.

  It’s the upstairs light in the middle house. There she is, the Botticelli woman with long hair. Dee. She opens the sliding door to the balcony and walks slowly outside, as if trying to be silent. She looks from side to side then squats in the darkest corner. A small flame appears, lighting her face briefly, and then there’s the unmistakeable small, red glow of a cigarette.

  I take a long sip of wine, an unpleasant tightness in my chest. I can’t help it; even as I pity her, I wonder about the baby. Where is it? Has she left it alone? Or is Rob there somewhere?

  As if on cue, the wailing begins. It’s fever-pitched, loud even from here. My heartbeat speeds up. That sound can still get to me.

  The woman doesn’t move. It’s a good minute before the red glow disappears and then she rises, slowly as if it’s a great effort, and half limps inside. Is she injured? Recovering from something? There’s something familiar about her gait, but I can’t put my finger on it. Despite the chill, she’s in a thin slip of a nightgown, her cascade of hair spilling everywhere, her engorged breasts low-hung and stark white as she bends, lifts her child from its cot and slides the straps from her shoulders.

  Silence. The infant suckles, little legs kicking, and my heart thumps. There’s something world-weary, defeated, about the woman as she stands, motionless against the incessant wriggling of the baby, and turns to stare out of the window.

  There’s something different about her face – a darkness surrounding one of her eyes. Without thinking what I’m doing I grab the binoculars and aim them at the window. I have a clear shot of her face, and there’s no doubting what I’m seeing. Dee is sporting a black eye: purple and blue and tinged with yellow. I feel a twinge of empathy and something else. Something deep in my muscle memory triggers a sense of panic. Did she have this when I saw her last, or is it new?

  As if in slow motion, Dee bends and places the baby down, out of sight. Then she swings wildly to the right, grasps the stem of a floor lamp and throws it, like a javelin, to the floor. There’s the distant sound of splintering glass, and the scene goes black.