Chapter 6
It had been sixteen months earlier, Falk could have told Raco if he’d wanted to.
Back on one of those dark Melbourne evenings that was still technically autumn but felt a whole lot like winter.
The rain had come and gone in sharp bursts all day, leaving the pavements slick and shining with reflections of the city at night.
Rita had been five months pregnant up in Kiewarra.
Baby Henry was still to be born, still to have his first christening celebration arranged, let alone canceled.
Falk had yet to ever hear of Kim Gillespie, had not yet set foot in the Marralee Valley.
He’d recently got a call from Raco, though, who was going to be in Melbourne briefly for a one-day professional development course.
They’d arranged to meet for drinks afterward.
The day had rolled around and it was late afternoon in the AFP offices when Falk’s phone had buzzed from the top of a thick stack of battered files threatening to take over his desk.
Falk welcomed the interruption as an excuse to stand up and get away from them.
Grabbing his phone, he moved over to the window.
It had started raining again, and he watched a tram come to a stop down below, waiting as passengers shook umbrellas and brushed off their jackets before stepping on.
They were all dressed differently—jeans, uniforms, one pair of scrubs—but from the body language Falk guessed at least a few had already finished work for the day.
He’d felt a faint pang of envy, then turned his phone over in his hand and opened Raco’s message.
A friend from SA’s here for a conference, the text read. She might swing by tonight to say hello.
Raco had followed it almost immediately with another message: That okay?
Honestly, it wasn’t ideal. Falk leaned against the glass and watched the tram close its doors and pull away.
He’d been looking forward to catching up with Raco, but—he glanced back at his desk; the files hadn’t gone anywhere, unfortunately—he wasn’t sure he had the energy to make small talk with a stranger.
He swiped his thumb over his phone and wondered if he could simply say that.
He probably could, to Raco. On the other hand, it wasn’t Raco’s fault he had friends other than Falk.
Falk had stood there for as long as it took for another tram to pull up, then texted back: No worries. He’d watched until the tram moved away, then made himself turn from the window and walk back to his desk.
So that was how Falk had come to find himself crammed into a busy bar that overlooked the Yarra River a few hours later, waiting for Raco.
They’d arranged to meet at Southbank, which had been convenient but possibly a mistake, on reflection.
The Friday night post-work rush was even busier thanks to footy fans stopping for a quick drink on their walk to the ground.
To the east, Falk could see the MCG blazing with light ahead of the night’s game.
He’d fought his way into the bar and carved out a spot near the door to wait, closer than he liked to a table where three women were sharing a bottle of wine.
One of them flicked her eyes up, mildly irritated by his presence in a way that reminded him abstractly of his most recent relationship.
He shifted his angle against the wall. He could still feel the woman’s eyes on him and fixed his own gaze through the window to the river outside.
This woman in the bar wasn’t his ex, obviously—she was still in Sydney as far as he knew, which was probably best all around.
They’d met at a mutual colleague’s wedding, and for eighteen months it had been good without being great for either of them.
His colleague Carmen had swung between frustration and disappointment when she heard they’d split up.
You two had so much in common, she kept saying, and she’d been right.
Plenty in common, like how they were both with the AFP based out of Melbourne.
And how they both had individual workloads that didn’t leave much time or space for anything else.
There had been other factors as well, though.
Like the fact she was at her happiest when they visited her family on the peninsula, where she would swim and play with her nieces and help out for hours in her brother-in-law’s bookshop, and have long lazy dinners on the back deck with the scent of jasmine heavy in the evening air.
An old high school boyfriend, now a friendly divorced single dad, seemed to be around often enough to make everyone but the pair of them a little uncomfortable.
At night, she’d whisper to Falk across the bedsheets in her sister’s spare room.
It’s so parochial, she’d say, in a tone that made it sound both like a joke and something else completely.
But there was no denying she was different there—lighter and softer, her eyes and mouth taking on a new shape. Just as she was always different again on their return to Melbourne and to work. Brittle and brisk for a week as her hard professional edge slowly resurfaced, sharp and painful.
“You’re different, too,” she’d thrown back at Falk the one and only time he’d raised it.
When she’d been offered a transfer and promotion in Sydney, it had come as something of a relief for both of them.
She’d accepted the opportunity almost defiantly, this new role based right in the urban heart of a different state, a long way from her little nieces and the peninsula swims and the independent bookshop.
She’d made the arrangements as if daring Falk to challenge her decision.
He’d thought about it—seriously and carefully—and then hadn’t, and was very aware that she felt let down by that.
So she’d gone, leaving some gaps in his social life and a few more in his living room—why did losing a girlfriend always involve losing furniture?
he wondered—and then quickly, very quickly in fact, the gaps had closed over as though they’d never been there.
For the past year, whenever Raco or Rita had asked what he’d been up to, Falk always gave the same honest answer: work, mainly.
A gust of cold air blew in straight off the Yarra as the bar’s door opened and then closed, and Falk checked the time.
Raco was late—unusually for him—and Falk finally, reluctantly, surrendered his spot and fought his way to the counter.
He was scrolling through his emails and half-heartedly attempting to get served when his phone buzzed in his hand.
A text from Raco. Bloody stuck here, will try to call …
A young bartender suddenly materialized in front of Falk, saw him looking at his phone, and turned immediately to the woman at the bar next to him, with a snapped: “Yep?”
“Ah, I’ll…” The woman paused, also distracted as her own screen lit up in her hand. The bartender didn’t attempt to suppress his eye roll. She looked up and caught him at it.
“Sorry,” she said, and he softened a little. “I’m supposed to be meeting someone, but he’s just messaged and—” She stopped herself. The bartender clearly could not care less. She gestured to Falk. “Maybe let this guy go ahead while I…”
Her navy-blue coat was dotted with rain, and she’d brought the cold in with her.
She put her phone down on the countertop and wound her damp hair into a quick, loose bun on top of her head as she frowned at the lit-up screen.
As she lowered her arms, she eased her bag off her shoulder and onto the empty stool in front of her.
Two wrapped children’s gifts were visible inside; the label on the top one read: Baby Raco.
Falk twisted to look at her properly now, bumping against a young guy standing too close behind him. “You’re here to meet Greg Raco?” he said. “His friend from South Australia?”
“Yeah.” She turned in surprise. The bartender threw them both a look of impatience and moved on. “Are you … Adam?”
“Aaron. Falk.” He held out his hand.
“That’s right, sorry.” She smiled as she took it, her palm cool from the evening air. “Gemma Tozer. Hi.” She glanced at her phone. “Did you just get—”
As if on cue, Falk’s own mobile rang. This is him now, he gestured as he answered, covering his other ear to drown out the chatter and music.
“Mate, sorry, this is the first chance I’ve had to step out—” Raco launched straight into a rambling explanation that Falk only half caught.
The course instructor had been urgently called away, the replacement was now running well behind.
They had to get through it tonight so the officers could all get back to their home turfs before the weekend shifts.
“Listen,” Raco was saying. “Gemma’ll be arriving any minute, I’ll call her—”
“She’s here now, mate. Hang on, I’ll pass you over—” Falk had held out his phone to the woman. “He’s stuck there.”
“Not going to make it?”
“Doesn’t sound hopeful.”
“Okay.” She’d undone her coat and underneath was wearing a knee-length patterned dress that gathered at the waist. She dried her damp hands against the hem before taking Falk’s phone and listening for a minute, concentrating to hear over the noise.
She fell somewhere between him and Raco in age, Falk guessed. Probably closer to Raco, or maybe she was just religious about applying sunscreen. Her hair was light or dark brown, depending on how it caught the overhead lights.
“No, Greg,” she was saying. “Don’t worry. Absolutely. It happens. It’s—”
The reassurances went on for so long that Falk had to smile. Gemma met his eye and grinned as well. She leaned against the bar, picking up a promotional beer mat with her free hand and turning it over idly as Raco continued to apologize.
“I think we can forgive you,” she said finally.
“Give my love to Rita. Okay. Yes. Look, sometimes you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.
” She cringed as she spoke and immediately stopped fiddling with the coaster, placing it down firmly on the counter.
On the side facing up, Falk could see a slogan for a new craft ale: Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.
He felt a flutter of amusement and glanced up. Gemma shrugged with her free hand.
Been a long day, she mouthed.
Fair enough, he mouthed back.
She smiled at him then. “Okay. I’ll make sure he knows,” she said into the phone, still looking at Falk. “No worries. Bye.” She hung up and returned Falk’s phone. “He was being called back in. He’s very sorry about tonight.”
Falk laughed. “Yeah, I got that.”
“He said he’ll call you tomorrow.”
“I’m sure he will. He’s a good bloke.”
“He really is. Always has been.” Gemma’s gaze skimmed the packed room. “Well—”
“Yeah.” They teetered on the brink of awkward. “So—”
Stay or go?
Outside, the rain seemed to have passed, at least. Gemma still had her coat on. Falk had some work he needed to catch up on at home. He could put the footy on TV in the background. Raco wasn’t going to make it. The bartender pointedly served someone behind them.
“It’s a shame.” Gemma fiddled with a button on her coat but didn’t do it up. “I’m sorry not to see him.”
“Me, too,” Falk said. “You’ve known him awhile?”
“Yeah, and his brothers. I don’t see him that much these days, but we were all at school together so, I don’t know, what’s that? Twenty years now? More?” She widened her eyes good-naturedly at the number. “How about you?”
“Met him and Rita about five years ago,” Falk said. “So we’re not quite close enough yet to be giving each other advice from beer mats, but you know, I’m hopeful we’ll reach—”
“Yep, you can stop right there, thanks.” But she was smiling as she flipped the coaster over on the counter. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do, now hidden against the scratched marble.
“I mean, if we were close enough, I’d obviously say—” Falk turned over the beer mat nearest his elbow to reveal: You regret the things you didn’t do more than the things you did.
“Jesus,” Gemma said. Her sleeve brushed his as she leaned in to read. She smelled nice, he noticed. “What brand is this?”
“It’s not calling to you?”
She wrinkled her nose. “But I’m probably not the target audience. I guess the ‘no regrets’ thing works for some people.”
“Craft beer marketing teams?”
“Clearly.” She absently turned over Falk’s mat, too. “Tattoo enthusiasts?”
“Bungee jumpers.”
“Energy drink companies.”
“Disgruntled employees who’ve told their boss to shove it,” he said. “And are now going backpacking through Thailand?”
“Middle-aged executives signing up for a marathon against their doctor’s advice.”
“People who’ve never really had to, you know—” Falk stopped himself. No. Wrong tone. Too heavy. He tried to steer the thought a different way, but she’d already sensed it.
“Reflect bitterly on things they can’t change?”
“Exactly.” He made his voice light.
They caught each other’s eye. Neither said anything for a moment. Her face was open and relaxed, but there was a shadow of something he couldn’t quite read.
“Do those people exist?” Gemma said.
“Apparently.” Falk nodded at the coasters.
“Lucky them.” She smiled then, warm and deep, and in that tiny moment, he suddenly felt it, as clear and resonant as a bell.
Stay.
Gemma was already looking past him, though, outside, to where the river lay black and shining.
Her coat was still undone, but now she reached into her pocket and pulled out her own phone.
Falk could feel her thoughts sliding to the evening that lay ahead, the same question rising in her. Stay or go?
“Do you have time for a drink?” Falk heard himself say the words with a faint sense of surprise. He’d been thinking it, but it seemed his head was a half step behind his mouth, stumbling to catch up. “Seeing as we’re both here?”
Gemma turned to him, her own face still.
It felt like a long moment as Falk watched her calculate whatever she was weighing up. She turned her beer mat over, then flipped it facedown again. “Does the drink come with a life-affirming motto?”
“You have my word it will not.”
“Well. When you put it that way.” That smile again, and Falk felt a rush of something he could only describe as relief. She put her phone back in her coat pocket. They turned together toward the bar, and the back of her hand touched his.
Stay.