Chapter 17
There’s a monster in this book. You just haven’t spotted them yet.
I sit at the edge of my bed, leafing through the soft pages of a picture book. Mum read it to me as a child. Just once. It’s one of those “monsters aren’t real, it’s just your imagination” lessons.
But they were wrong, I knew it even then. I look at the picture again. There, under the child’s bed, something is hiding. Waiting and watching like a shark under the surface. Sometimes, you have to squint to see it.
The monster.
Mum started to turn the page, but I reached out, pointed at the monster and said, “Daddy.”
I still remember the look on her face.
I close the book and place it gently on my pillow. Outside my bedroom window, Jessie sniffs at the garden beds. Heath’s on lifesaving duties, so he won’t be home for another few hours.
I lie flat on my back, sling my forearm over my eyes.
My head hurts. There are so many strange pieces to this puzzle, and I don’t know how to put them all together.
Are there any connections among my mum, Donny, and Hannah?
If so, what? And what is it about the story that makes me feel like I’m missing something completely?
Like there’s something in the back of my brain that I can’t quite reach?
I rise slowly, not quite admitting to myself where I’m going. Head down, I walk past the silent kitchen and stop outside my father’s room. My muscles tighten. My body is physically telling me to turn around.
Even as a child, I never entered his room.
Never wanted to. He kept the curtains and windows drawn, all day, all night.
His life was ruled by the tides, and because of this, his sleeping hours shifted with the moon.
When he was sleeping, we learned to tiptoe around the house, jaws clenched so hard it hurt.
Not that our silence mattered. He was always groggy and furious no matter how quiet we were.
If his life was dominated by the tides, then our lives were dominated by his moods. If you greeted him with a polite and cautious, “Hello,” he’d either ignore you or reel back and show his teeth like a twitchy wolf.
If you didn’t greet him, he’d throw up his hands and bark, “Aren’t I even good enough for a hello?”
He left me reeling and stupid. Made my mouth a jail, and all my words prisoners. The longer I was under his roof, the smaller my voice became.
I’m doing it again. Tiptoeing, clenching my jaw.
He’s gone, I tell my body. He’s not coming back.
Are you sure? it asks. Are you sure are you sure are you sure?
I open the door and step inside before I change my mind. My father’s room smells like the sea. The sharp bite of salt, a heavy brine that clings to my nose. There’s a dampness here, an ancient stillness. It feels like I’m underwater.
I hold my sleeve to my nose. The navy sheets on his double bed are scrunched at the end of the bed like old toilet paper. Crusty plaid shirts are still slung over the bedpost, like they’re waiting for him to come back.
So dark, so filthy, so Dad.
I kneel beside his bed, peek under. But there’s only a pair of dirt-caked boots.
I reach for them, inspecting the insides, not even sure what I’m looking for.
Nothing. I lift the scrunched sheets and sweep my arm under: empty.
I sit stiffly on the end of my father’s bed, looking around the small, filthy room.
My eyes fix on his hideous wardrobe. It’s taller than me, nearly as wide as his double bed.
For the first time, I wonder why he needed such a huge wardrobe.
It’s not like he owned many clothes, and God knows he never hung them up.
I walk slowly to the wardrobe, reach for the brass handle, and pull it open. Only darkness and a pair of green waders, half spilling out of a drawer. I stare at the waders, feeling sick. Dad owned two pairs. He was wearing the others when he went missing. They were never recovered.
Leave, my body insists. Please.
I don’t. I reach for the top drawer, just above my head, and slide it out. Inside is one of those old Peters Ice Cream tubs, filled with nails, screws, a pair of binoculars, and two dead moths.
In the next drawer is a bottle of cough medicine, half empty.
The final drawer. With the heavy waders half stuffed in, it’s a struggle to pull it open. I reach inside instead, shoving my hand under the waders, feeling for anything else in the drawer. But I find nothing.
I kneel down. It’s so dark that I reach for my phone and flick on the torchlight. I shine it at the base of the wardrobe. I peer inside the other two pairs of boots, even lifting them up and shaking them to see if anything falls loose. But nothing does.
I sit back on my heels, hands on my knees, frustrated. And that child part of my brain urges me to finish up and leave the monster’s lair.
Leave, leave, leave.
No.
I stare at the waders, thinking. I yank the drawer open, and the hinges yell in protest. I tug and tug until the drawer comes tumbling out.
It falls at my feet, and I pull the waders onto my lap, inspecting them.
I reach my hand inside the left pocket: nothing.
I try the other pocket, and my fingers finally touch something.
It’s palm-sized, the edges sharp. Heart thumping, I pull it out.
A diving club membership.
I shine my torch on it, staring at the small photo on the front. Black hair, dark eyes slightly narrowed. I pull the license closer to my face. Yes, that’s my father’s photo.
But that’s not his name.
Michael Hunt.
I read the name over and over. Michael Hunt. Down Under Diving, Doncaster, Victoria. Doncaster is two hours away. Fifteen kilometers east of Melbourne.
She’d made a bunch of new friends through her diving club…
Dazed, I place the license on my knee and google Down Under Diving. The homepage is a wide, vivid shot of open water, sunlight streaming down into deep blue. Photos are scattered across the site: wrecks draped in shadow, close-ups of masked faces grinning through mouthpieces.
I call Kat and she picks up on the fifth ring. “Hello?”
I lick my lips, suddenly breathless. “Hi, Kat. This is Melanie Greenwood.” My voice is too high, strained. “I came to interview you the other day.”
Eagerly, she asks, “Have you got an update?”
I pause, picking up the license, rolling it in my fingers. “Do you remember the name of Hannah’s diving club?”
She pauses for a long time, and I add, “The one where she met her Water Mates.”
She clicks her tongue, and I hold my breath.
“It’s been twenty-plus years,” she finally murmurs. I can almost see her shaking her head. “I don’t remember the exact name. It was in Melbourne, though.”
“Doncaster?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll search her room. See if I can find something?”
“That would be great, thanks.” I stare at Dad’s license. “It wasn’t Down Under Diving Club, was it?”
Silence. I press my lips together.
“I’m not sure,” she says. “Maybe.” A chair squeaks and Kat groans. “I’m going to look now. Why do you need to know? Has there been an update?”
“I don’t know yet,” I tell her. “Let me know if you find the name.”
She agrees, and I end the call, staring at my dad’s license and the fake name on it.
What were you up to, Dad?
What have you done?