Chapter 21
The sky is the ocean. Blue-black and roaring, whitecaps hurtling past like clouds. There’s a bitter taste in my mouth, a rattle in my teeth. I’m stretched so tight that if I don’t bend, I’ll break. I’m waiting for something. Someone.
My father dives out of the ocean-sky. His voice slides wetly down my ear canals: You can hear it, too. Can’t you, Min? The ocean? Calling and calling?
Because it’s a dream, it makes sense. Of course the sky is the ocean. Of course Dad is sharpening his knife in the cabin, inspecting the blade. Pointing its black tip at me.
Hungry?
He thrusts a kangaroo leg into my mouth, and I tear off meaty strips, hungry as a shark, letting them dangle down my lips like noodles before slurping them up.
Chris grimaces at the cabin door. What are you eating?
I turn my face away, chewing frantically. Nothing. It’s nothing.
—
I roll over, mouth pressed into the seatbelt.
I wake slowly, my lips tasting like plastic.
Outside my back-seat window, the sun burns through, the seatbelt buckle iron-hot.
The back of my neck drips with sweat as I snatch my phone up.
I scan the screen, holding my breath. No missed calls from Chris.
From anyone. My last two texts to him have gone unanswered.
On my way to Bethanga. We could meet up after?
Chris?
Nothing. I drove past his Airbnb this morning; his car was gone. I haven’t heard from him since I stumbled out of his bedroom.
I throw my phone onto the passenger seat, climb into the front, and start the engine, stewing. I pull out of the rest stop, swiping at the sweat on my cheeks. The steering wheel’s so hot, I have to hold it with the pads of my fingertips.
Bethanga is on the southern border of New South Wales, sandwiched between Melbourne and Sydney.
I’ve been there once, years ago, a last-minute road trip with housemates. I spent most of the weekend looking out the window as the Murray River snaked past, smiling at the short-necked turtles as they poked their heads up in the coffee-colored water.
On the left side of the Hume Highway are fields of canola flowers, butter yellow and burning. On the right, thirsty stretches of sunburned fields. The famous highway is 840 kilometers long, I’m one nap and three coffees in. Just over an hour to go.
I pass the exit for Glenrowan, deep in the dark heart of Kelly Country.
Thousands of sheep chew absently in stationary groups, and the bony branches of skeleton trees claw at the hazy sky.
In 1880, bushranger Ned Kelly was captured here in his homemade armor at the Glenrowan Inn after that infamous, bloody shootout with police.
The Kelly Gang’s Last Stand. We call him a hero.
Of course we do.
Five months later they hung him in the Old Melbourne Jail. They took us on a school excursion to see his hangman’s noose. We were five.
I glance at my phone again in case Chris has messaged.
He hasn’t.
—
The double-brick home is perched atop an elevated block.
An expansive redwood deck runs the length of it, overlooking golden-green rolling hills.
The house is barely visible from the valley road beneath, and it’s so quiet here, just the soft whoosh through the golden elm trees and the distant clucking of chickens.
But there’s something very wrong here. I can feel it.
I shut the driver’s door but can’t seem to untuck my fingers from the safety of the door handle. I pull my phone out of my back pocket, and text Colleen.
I’m here.
I hesitate, wanting to add, If something happens to me…
What’s going to happen to you, Minnow? You’re chatting to a bereaved mum. You’ll spend a probing hour with her, leave before 2 p.m. You’ll be home at seven, propped up in bed, Jessie breathing softly beside you.
I’ll message you when I’m done. Should be an hour.
I wait for her to message back, glancing nervously at the silent house, muttering Come on, Colleen, under my breath.
She texts back, Ok. Good luck.
My shoulders relax, but my eyes survey the porch, uneasy. I tuck my phone back in my pocket, lock the car door. I walk stiffly up the hill, feeling like I’m diving off a life raft and paddling into a stormy sea.
—
She presses a sweating glass of cordial into my palm and tells me to call her Deb. She didn’t ask me if I wanted the drink. Didn’t ask me to remind her what newspaper I work for. I called her on the way, gave vague answers to her vague questions.
Who do you work for?
I work for Trident mag. Before that, I worked for the Mill.
When journos shoot their shot, I’m always surprised how few questions are asked. No one wants to look stupid. You tell them who you work for, and they just nod silently, wait for you to lead.
And I did. I’m not far from Bethanga. I’d love to talk to you about Rachel.
Silence.
I was raised in Kangaroo Bay. I—
You were what?
Raised there.
…You said you’re in the area?
Deb has a small voice, a tight jaw, and she taps her foot repeatedly. Her yellow T-shirt has a stain near her belly button, her silver bob windswept. Her house has floor-to-ceiling windows. There’s a ceiling fan in each room I passed, and an aboveground pool.
“Thank you for seeing me.” I sip from the sweaty glass, rub the condensation on my jeans, hope she doesn’t notice. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
She gives me an absent nod, eyes raking the pool. I inspect it, gripping the glass tighter, worried it’ll slip.
“She was a strong swimmer, Rach,” Deb mutters, hateful eyes on the pool. “The lake’s just down the road, too.”
Lake Hume is one of the largest in Australia.
I passed it on the way through. Sunshine glittered off the surface as speedboats rocketed past, pulling inner tubes with squealing kids.
Elderly couples lazed in the shade of towering ghost gums, and rowdy teens crowded the Bethanga Bridge, preparing to dive in.
“No sharks in the fucking lake.”
The rage in her voice silences me. Her spine’s rigid, eyes stormy. I get the feeling she’s keeping so much in when she really wants to howl in pain like a wolf.
A dull-eyed man shuffles into the kitchen, barefoot and silent.
Absently, he flicks the kettle on, and I look to Deb, but she ignores him.
I call out a soft hello that’s lost in the gurgle of the kettle boiling.
He dumps a tea bag into a mug, trembles as he fills it.
No milk. It steams on the counter, and he watches it silently like he’s too tired to hold it. Finally, he shuffles out.
“What was she doing in Kangaroo Bay?”
“Something bad.”
I blink, grip loosening. I fumble for the glass, clamping it in my hands. “What does that mean exactly?”
“You said you’re from Kangaroo Bay?”
I nod.
“There’s a lot of bad types down there.”
“Yes, there is,” I tell her. “How do you know that?”
Her breath stalls. “I don’t want you printing what I’m about to tell you,” she says, emphasizing each word. “Nobody’s figured it out yet.”
I nod quickly, lean forward.
“We used to live in Kangaroo Bay.”
“When?”
“Late seventies to the late eighties. Rented a house on Jupiter Court with Rach’s dad.” She falls into heavy silence, lips pursed. “…He wasn’t a good man.”
“Violent?”
A door clicks closed, followed by the faint rustle of footsteps on carpet.
“Yeah.” Her jaw clenches tight. “I left him. Fled, actually. Went back to my maiden name.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“You said your name was Greenwood?”
“Yes, Minnow Greenwood.”
She frowns, shakes her head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. But then, we left in 1987.”
“How old was Rach when you left?”
“Ten.”
If Rachel was born in 1977, then she would have been in grade five when Heath was starting school. I make a note to ask him about her.
“Rach was…” Deb’s voice drops. “Unwell. Always had been. That town made it worse.”
The town made it worse.
I’m standing on the cliff edge with Colleen. Her eyes are full.
Felt like I was losing Trav.
To what?
The darkness in this town.
I fix my eyes on the pool, thinking of my father. Trav. The blood boys in town. The violence in their bellies coiled like snakes. Did the town tug it loose? Or do we cling to that excuse because it’s easier?
“What do you mean by unwell?”
“She was a brooder, you know what I mean? I used to call them her dark moods. She was like that even as a child. It was hard to pull her out of it.”
“How long would these moods last?”
“Sometimes minutes. Sometimes months.”
“Depression?”
She considers this. “Yeah, and…” Her voice falls off. “I don’t know. Something else, I think.”
I wait, eyes on the pine-green carpet.
“We used to fight about the movies she’d watch…” She pauses, seems to brace herself. “Lot of horror movies. Gore. Just nasty stuff.”
“You said she was doing something bad,” I murmur, eyes flicking up to hers. “Tell me about that.”
Silence.
“She got into something she shouldn’t have…” Deb finally says. “Think it pissed a few people off down there.”
“Got into what?”
She frowns like I’ve asked the wrong question, gets to her feet. “I searched her room…” She shifts her weight, considers her next words. “You need to see something.”
She tips her head in the direction of a light-filled hallway.
I get to my feet and follow.
—
There’s a sign hanging from the firmly shut door of the spare room.
To Plant a Garden
Is To Believe in Tomorrow
Deb’s face falls when she reads it. I imagine her hammering that nail in with grim determination, tugging at the sign until it hangs straight. Then she steps back, nods once, thinking, Yes, this will help her.
It didn’t.
She straightens her spine, twists the door handle, steps inside. It’s a country bedroom, a cherrywood rocking chair in the corner, a crocheted blanket folded neatly at the foot of a brass bed. It smells like dead wattle in here.
Deb reaches tenderly for a sage-green pillow with a ruffled fringe. “She moved back in after she left her husband. They were getting a divorce. It was supposed to be a new beginning for her.” She smooths the pillow with her palm. “Stupid of me.”
I stand in the center of the room, eyes on the single bed. “I’m sorry.” A painted mason jar sits sadly on the bedside table, stuffed with drooping wattle. “What did Rachel do for work?”
“Store manager at Kmart,” she says automatically. “Was, anyway. She resigned after her marriage fell apart. Though to be clear, the marriage had been falling apart for years.”
“Why?”
She pauses, anchoring her attention to the rocking chair.
“…I’m not making excuses for her. But she really did need help, and she never got it.
And I know she tried. I took her myself.
” She shakes her head, gaze darkening. “Doctors, psychologists, psychiatrists, you name it. They put her on every drug known to man. Nothing helped.”
“Helped what?”
“Her violence.”
I nod, wait.
“She said she felt it…stirring in her blood. Her father was the same.”
You can hear it, too, Min, can’t you? The ocean? Calling and calling?
I rub my forehead, mumbling, “Tell me about her husband.”
“He wasn’t a saint, either,” she adds, eyebrow slanted in disapproval. “Couldn’t keep his penis in his pants. And when Rachel caught him…” She lowers her head. “It was just bad, you know? All of it.”
“Was he from Kangaroo Bay?”
“Sydney.” She places the pillow back. “After they split, she moved back in with us. She barely got out of bed for a year. But in the last few months she was getting out more. Making long-term plans.” She shrugs helplessly. “We felt she was getting better.”
To Plant a Garden
Is To Believe in Tomorrow
So what made Rachel start believing in tomorrow? “What was she doing for money?”
The question hangs in the air.
Something bad.
I turn to Deb, who looks away. “Something illegal?”
“She was on government benefits,” she finally mutters. “Just ’til she got on her feet.”
“Divorces are expensive. All those lawyer fees,” I prompt. “Was she worried about money?”
“…Little bit.”
“But she had the cash to keep traveling to Kangaroo Bay.”
Silence.
“What was the purpose of the trips?”
“Meeting up with old friends.”
“Who?”
“She never said,” she admits, raising a hand in her defense. “Yes, I should have asked. I doubt she would’ve told me, though.”
“Did you believe her? That she was just meeting up with friends?”
“I wanted to.”
Silence. The bedroom window is framed with a lace curtain, sheer as a nightgown. Golden elm leaves flutter past as the sky darkens.
I nod at the bed. “Mind if I sit down?”
She shrugs, reaches for the sage pillow again, holds it against her chest. I sit down, spine straight, hands flat on my knees. “There’s something odd about Rachel’s attack.”
She says nothing, but I watch her clutch the pillow tighter.
“Why was she swimming at night? And alone?”
“For someone else it would’ve been strange, yes,” Deb admits. “But like I said, she was different. She wasn’t afraid of doing things like that—swimming at night.”
“She wasn’t just swimming.”
She pauses, eyes narrowing. “Yes she was. Eyewitnesses said so.”
“I know what they said, but it’s not true.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I was there. I was one of the eyewitnesses,” I tell her, looking up. “And I know what she was really doing.”